four in the
morning
I cried out in dismay , as I pictured my husband bunking with a sweaty-smelling plowing-gang of Swedes and Finns and hoboing about the prairie with a thrashing outfit of the Great Unwashed . He 'd get cooties , or rheumatism , or a sunstroke , or a knife between his ribs some fine night -- and then where 'd I be ? I could n't think of it . I could n't think of Duncan Argyll McKail , the descendant of Scottish kings and second-cousin to a title , hiring out to some old skinflint of a farmer who 'd have him up at four in the morning and keep him on the go until eight at night . `` Then what other way ? '' asked Dinky-Dunk . `` You leave it to me , '' I retorted .