CHAPTER VIII
THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH
sat on a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when I noticed at the other end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." He was dressed as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. I dropped off the fence as if I had been shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I pushed the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my head. Then I adjusted the string that served as a suspender. On came the galloping horse. A few more lightning touches to what covered my nakedness and he reined up in front of me! I straightened up like a piece of whalebone!
"What are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his.
"Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!"
"You need a new shirt!" he said. The blood rushed to my face. I tried to answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me.
"You need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. I saw a smile playing about the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave me courage.
"Aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue."