American Agriculturist, November 15, 1924 
345 
The Trouble Maker 
By E. R. Eastman 
“ r plIE worst of it is,” said Bradley, 
A “I don’t see how farmers are going 
to stop working their long hours. It is all 
right to talk about cutting down produc¬ 
tion, but any one farmer or several 
farmers who did it would starve as long 
as all the other farmers did not stop 
also.” 
“Yes,” said Jim. “It is like a great 
treadmill, dreary enough to keep going, 
but the minute you stop you fall. 
“Maybe,” continued Jim, “some or¬ 
ganization like the Dairymen’s League 
will come along some day. that will be 
strong enough to restrict production 
generally, like the Labor Unions do now.” 
“Weli, I dunno. It’s pretty doubtful,” 
said the county agent. “Farmers are 
too darn independent and there are too 
many of them widely scattered for any 
general plan of reducing production to 
work. About the only thing that lessens 
the surplus is low prices and they have 
to be starvation low at that, or else the 
farmers go right on piling it up. 
“That’s one thing that worries me 
about this Dairymen’s League,” Bradley 
contimied. “This economic law of 
supply and demand is a funny thing. 
Suppose the League does succeed in 
getting good prices for a while. Just as 
soon as the prices go up, all the farmers 
will break their necks to crowd the last 
pound of milk out of every old crowbait 
of a cow in the country, and a greatly 
increased supply of milk will bring the 
prices down again, in spite of all the 
organizations in the world. Maybe, 
though, a good organization might 
advertise milk and help the demand 
keep up with the supply. 
“Anyway, I’m kind of tired of the 
subject,” he added. “It’s too nice a 
night to talk about milk.” 
T AYLOR made no reply, and after a 
little silence, Bradley said: 
“Jim, we were talking a little while 
ago about the big families of the old-time 
farmers. Don’t see many of that kind 
to-day. One reason they were big was 
that folks married young. Boys and 
girls both used to marry as young as 
sixteen, and a girl that got much beyond 
twenty began to be looked upon as an 
old maid. We don’t even dare call them 
old maids any more. Nowadays, the 
marrying age seems to be getting higher 
all the time.” 
“Good thing,” said Jim. “What’s 
the use of such large families anyway? 
Too many folks now, that’s one thing 
ails the country.” 
“You’re right from that angle,” replied 
the county agent, “but all the same, you 
can’t pick up a paper anywhere without 
seeing dozens of accounts of divorces. 
There seems to be less and less respect 
and liking for the ideals of the old-time 
American family. I believe it is this late 
marrying business, or no marrying at all, 
that causes so much immorality and so 
much trouble after marriage. As I see it, 
a successful marriage is a matter of two 
people adjusting themselves to each other; 
and the older we get the more set we 
become in our ways and the less likely 
to make allowances for the other partner 
in the harness.” 
“That all may be true, and probably 
is,” interrupted Jim, “but let me tell you 
something. Bringing this right down to 
cases, for ten years I have wanted to get 
married. She’s the dearest girl in the 
world, and I never will be interested in 
anybody else. I have even gone so far 
as to think that she cared something 
about me. But I haven’t asked her 
because I knew I could not give her as 
easy a life as she has now in her father’s 
home. I expect there are tens of thou¬ 
sands of other young men that don’t get 
married for the same reason. 
“In olden times, things were different. 
The majority of people lived in about the 
same way. Most of them were farmers 
and they supplied nearly all of their 
wants from their own farms. In those 
days, the girls were lucky if they had one 
Sunday go-to-meetin’ dress. To-day 
they wear much better dresses in the 
kitchen than their grandmothers used to 
wear to church. 
“But I think, Brad, if a man really 
loves a girl he wants her to be happy, and 
it sure is risking a woman’s happiness 
and even her health to ask her to share 
a life that has as little prospects as I have 
to grub anything worth while out of this 
old farm.” 
“Oh, pshaw!” said Bradley. “You’re 
getting to be such a sour old pessimist 
lately that you’re almost morbid. If the 
girl loves you, she ought to be given a 
chance to determine for herself where her 
happiness lies.” 
T HE men stopped talking and smoked 
for a while in silence. 
Then Jim contimied rather bitterly. 
“Oh, well, I’m not even sure that she 
cares anyway. In fact, it’s likely that she 
don’t, judging by the way she acts 
lately. She won’t even speak to me. 
“But say, Brad, old man, you’re no 
spring rooster yourself to be talkin’ to 
me about getting married. How come 
you’re not traveling in double harness?” 
For a moment Bradley did not answer. 
Then he said: 
“Well, I don’t know, Jim. Guess I’ve 
been too busy trying to get an education. 
A fellow doesn’t have much time to 
think about women when he earns his 
own way through college. And it’s been 
about the same way since. Too much 
interest in my work, and too busy. 
However, to be honest, I’ve begun to 
think something about it this summer.” 
He paused for a few moments and Jim 
waited without comment for him to go 
on, while he watched Bradley’s pipe 
glowing in the dusk in his corner of the 
porch. 
“You and I are pretty good friends, 
Jim,” he went on, “and there’s some¬ 
thing about getting interested in a nice 
girl that makes a fellow want to talk 
about it. I don’t mind telling you that 
lately I think I’ve found the girl, and I’ve 
been doing some dreaming and planning 
about getting married.” 
At that, Jim removed his pipe and 
turned to look more intently toward the 
county agent. 
“Yes, I am sure I have found the girl,” 
said Bradley. “Funny how a fellow can 
go on all of his life not paying a lot of 
attention to girls, and thinking that one 
of them is much the same as another, 
until suddenly he gets acquainted with 
one and, biff! just like that, he knows or 
feels that some way she is different, and 
out of all the herd she is the only one that 
matters.” 
• 
J IM made no comment, and after a 
pause, Bradley continued: 
“Maybe you’ve noticed, Jim, that 
I’ve been stopping down at Johnny 
Ball’s quite frequently in my trips around 
this end of the county.” 
“Yes, I have noticed,” said the other. 
“Well, I’ve had a chance to get ac¬ 
quainted with Dorothy, and I’m telling 
you she is some girl. She has ridden 
around some with me in my old flivver, 
and between spells when I was traveling 
from farm to farm, we have had some fine 
talks.” 
Jim pulled his feet off of the railing 
and his chair came down on forelegs 
with so loud a bang that it startled the 
other man. 
“What’s the matter, Jim?” Bradley 
asked quickly. 
“Nothing,” replied Taylor. “Chair 
slipped.” 
Bradley, in the dusk of the porch, 
could not see Jim’s tense body as he 
leaned forward in his chair waiting for 
the other to go on. If he could, he would 
have been shocked, for with clenched 
fingers and tense muscles, Jim sat strain¬ 
ing forward toward Bradley, desperately 
intent on every word. 
“Yes,” mused Bradley, unconscious 
of the effect of his words upon his friend, 
“I know I have found the girl for me. 
The only trouble is, I don’t know whether 
she loves me; but somehow I think maybe 
she does. Anyway, I’m going to find 
out. Next week, Dorothy has promised 
to go to the County Fair with me, and 
coming home, I am going to ask her to 
marry me.” 
He stopped and waited for Jim to 
speak 
“Well, Jim,” he said. “I thought 
maybe you would wish me good luck.” 
“I wish you luck, Bradley. Shall we 
turn in?” 
CHAPTER VI 
I T is difficult for those who are privi¬ 
leged to dwell in these modern days 
of automobiles, moving-pictures, radios, 
and other amusements of every kind and 
description within the reach of all to 
understand how keenly the Speedtown 
farm folks of a few years ago could look 
forward with so much anticipation to a 
holiday off to attend the County Agri¬ 
cultural Fair. 
Nearly every family for miles around 
planned to go to the second day of the 
fair. Everyone got up an hour earlier 
than usual and the men hurried through 
the chores while the last squawk of the 
luckless rooster showed the preparations 
of the women for the picnic luncheon. 
How roosters must curse farm holidays, 
visiting ministers, and threshing and 
silo-filling gangs! 
The chores done, and the breakfast 
out of the way, the whole countryside 
started on its way to the fair grounds. 
Although a few had automobiles, it was 
still the day of the horse, and most of the 
folks rode behind the old farm work 
horses. Then, as now, degrees of pros¬ 
perity were indicated by the turn-out. 
There were the fancy surreys, drawn by 
the lithe, high-stepping young road 
horses; there were the shiny buggies; 
and there were a few dog carts, the old 
two-wheel gigs which jerked their riders 
along with every step of the horse. But 
most frequent of all were the farm 
‘‘Democrats,” which were well named, 
for they truly were the democratic 
vehicle of the average farm family, loaded 
with “Ma, Pa and all the kids.” 
Out of the hills and the valleys they 
came, a long stream from every direction, 
converging toward the fair grounds. 
Over them rose a thick cloud of dust, 
filling nose, mouth and eyes. But what 
did a little thing like that matter? They 
were jolly, wholesome farm folks, a 
hegira of people seeking happiness as a 
thirsty man seeks water. 
In the procession were Bradley in his 
farm bureau car with Dorothy Ball on 
the seat beside him. No one had more 
of the holiday spirit than he. 'To be sure, 
his car might be old and wheezy, and the 
dust might be as thick as a fog. The 
devil and all his works might be to pay on 
all other days. But this was his day. 
Back of him and ahead of him were the 
voices and laughter of happy folks whom 
he liked, and beside him was the girl he 
loved. 
Bradley handled his old “Lizzie” in 
the crowded traffic with a skill and 
daring that kept the girl beside him 
almost breathless. No one who has 
heart-disease should ever ride with 
farm bureau men! They learn to drive a 
car up a barn roof or down a telephone 
pole with a nonchalance and indifference 
that makes the blood of him who is 
foolish enough to ride with them turn 
cold. The only satisfaction is that if the 
passenger hangs on long enough and 
retains breath and sanity, the county 
agent will usually get him home on time 
and intact. 
I N spite of the difficulty of driving in 
the crowded traffic, Bradley found 
opportunity to study the girl beside him. 
As she learned forward in the seat to 
wave enthusiastically at some neighbor or 
friend, or as she turned her face with its 
healthy color and sparkling eyes to speak 
to him, his heart beat a little faster as he 
thought of what it would mean to him 
if she were his And then as she turned 
to him to speak with a tender little 
smile about a young cripple boy they had 
just passed on his way for a holiday at the 
fair, he saw only her generous mouth with 
kissable up-turned corners, and he gripped 
the wheel hard with both hands as he 
thought of that mouth smiling for him 
in that same tender way. 
“What a partner she would make,” 
he thought. “Up hill or down dale, she 
would always be right there by a fellow’s 
side, loyal, tender and brave.” 
“The only trouble is, Dorothy,” he 
told her, “that I can’t be with you as 
much as I would like to. I had it all 
fixed up so I would not have to be at the 
farm bureau booth much and then some 
of the Speedtown boys got hold of me 
and made me promise to play on their 
ball team against Richland this morning. 
You know,” he added, “I used to play 
ball a little in my college days. The 
boys are quite excited about the game 
to-day, and I hear it promises to be a 
hot time.” 
“Oh, that will be fun,” answered 
Dorothy. “I shall be anxious to see you 
play. I’ve heard of your prowess in 
baseball.” 
“Thanks,” said Harry with a modest 
little bow. This praise was sweet to 
him. “I understand that each team 
has won a game so far this season and 
that there is a special interest in the one 
to-day in playing off the tie.” 
“Won’t you drive the car out near the 
diamond where I can watch the game? 
I’m a regular baseball fan when I know 
the players, though I never could de¬ 
velop very much enthusiasm for the two 
or three big league games I saw. Sitting 
away back in the grandstand, it seemed 
more like a moving picture than a real 
game.” 
So Bradley drove his car through the 
entrance gates down by the merry-go- 
round, across the race track, and out to 
the edge of the ball diamond. Then he 
left Dorothy while he went to get into his 
baseball suit. 
* * * 
Tj'OR Jim Taylor, the fair this year had 
-F no attractions. In fact, he was re¬ 
flecting rather bitterly as he milked his 
{Continued on page 350) 
What Has Happened in the Story So Far 
W ITH the best intentions in the world, Jim Taylor is getting the 
reputation, among some of his neighbors, of being anxious to 
stir up trouble. Having pondered long over the unfairness which forces 
the farm family to work day and night for a bare living, he begins 
talking organized rebellion to the dairymen around him. Many agrpe, 
but his bitterest opponent is his nearest neighbor, old Johnny Ball, 
father of Dorothy, Jim’s childhood sweetheart 
The dealer’s agent in Speedtown refuses Jim’s load of milk and Jim 
knocks him into a milk vat and drives away. A protest meeting is 
called at which the farmers hear a speaker for a new organization', the 
Dairymen’s League, and many sign the contract, which means a milk 
strike, Jim being first on the list. Bradley, the young county agent, 
supports the progressives. 
