Harvest of Death

Signal, signal gasoline. Yes, signal gasoline is the new gasoline you can prove is superior. The signal oil company and your neighborhood signal dealer bring you another curious story by the Whistler. Tonight, harvest of death.

I am the Whistler, and I know many things for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.

It wasn't a large farm, but it wasn't small either. It kept two strong men busy from sun up to sundown taking care of it. And they did a nice job because the farm prospered. Mort Grant owned the farm and lived in an awkward looking unpainted farmhouse with his wife Nelly.

Jim Hayward was the hire man and lived in a spare bedroom. But actually, he'd been there so long that he was more like one of the family than a hired hand. And that's what worried Mort Sanders.

I asked the death popping in the kitchen door like that. Did I? He certainly did. You know, I'm nervous enough without you acting like a calf chasing a mouse. I've gone and broke one of my best dishes.

Hello, Jim. Hello, Mort. I'm ambitious, aren't you? Well, I surely wish that you were a little more ambitious around the house. I could use a little help now and then. A woman's work is left to the women. Men have enough to do with her own work.

That right, Jim? Well, I guess it is, Mort, but Nellie looked a little tired and I thought it wouldn't hurt anything if I stepped out in the kitchen and helped her amite with the dishes.