Richard Connell

“ The hired men hoed in the rutabaga patch. Raphael, the oldest gypsy, lay smoking beneath a tree, watching a spider spin its web. Tom Draycott stood in the bow of the tramper “San Marco,” felt the salt spray on his face, and saw the orange-yellow lights of Singapore etched on the velvet dusk of an Oriental night. Martin Draycott expertly steered his truck into the drive-way of his farm. His eyes were on the big red barn. The shabby little house he did not see at all.
AT supper, Elsa spoke to him. She came in from the kitchen where she had been feeding the hired men their pork and potatoes. ”

“ A solid man, Martin Draycott. Too few farmers like him. A head on his shoulders. Honest. Reliable. That farm of his, the place old Forbes let go to seed, that's a nice piece of property for you. A hundred acres, and I'll bet they're all paying their way. Glad to put a mortgage on it. Not likely, though. Draycott too well fixed. Made it all himself, too. With his own hands, one might say. Wife helped, of course. Fine woman, Elsa Draycott. No nonsense about her. Most wives seem to think all they have to do is spend a husband's money as fast as he makes it. ”

“ Well, he'll get his young belly full of seafaring, and come back, like the Prodigal Son, and ask his father to take him back on the farm, and become a substantial member of the community. He'll be lucky if the old man takes him back. Finest farm in the county. Hollow-tile silo, electric milker, tractor, up-to-date barn. Guess Martin would take him back. Only son. Mad at the boy now, of course. Don't blame him. Must hurt a father to see a young ingrate turn his back on such a good chance to make money. Martin never speaks about Tom. ”