“And I’ll work all the harder at the sewing,” Jessie said, smiling approval of this novel arrangement, and hastily rescuing Mr. Horton’s unfinished shirt from Guard, who had been trying to utilize it for a bed. “There, now, see that!” she added, looking at me reproachfully. “How could you be so careless, Leslie? Guard has been lying on Mr. Horton’s new shirt!”
“It is new, and Mr. Horton has never worn it, so I don’t think it will contaminate Guard,” I retorted, perversely, as I turned to follow Joe, who had already started for the fields.
With me perched upon his back, the long, awkward, pulling lines discarded, and his movements directed by a gentle touch of the bridle reins against the side of his neck, Frank worked, as Joe had said he would, like a hero. The other horse, being of a meek and quiet spirit, had made no trouble from the outset; he was content to follow Frank’s lead, so we got on famously with the plowing from the day that I was installed as postillion.
“I always supposed that plowing was such a monotonous kind of business,” I remarked to Joe one day, taking advantage of the opportunity offered by his stopping the team to wipe away the perspiration that was streaming down my face. For the day was very warm, and we had been working steadily.
“If mon’tonus means hot, honey chile, I reckons yo’s right,” responded Joe. “Yo’s purty face is a sight to behole; red as a turkey cock’s comb, hit is, an’ dat streaked wif dirt dat dey doan nuffin’ show natteral but yo’ eyes.”
“One good thing, Joe, I can’t look any dirtier than I feel,” I replied wearily, and with a longing glance toward the river that rippled silver-white and cool at the foot of the hill beneath us. Joe saw the glance.
WE GOT ON FAMOUSLY WITH THE PLOWING
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“Hol’ on, honey,” he exclaimed, as I was about starting the team again. “Dere’s de lines looped up on the back band; I’ll jess run ’em out an’ finish up dish yer bit alone.”
“Do you think you can?” I asked, wavering between a longing to rest and my sense of duty.