“Hadn’t you better have some poles braced against the other side, sir?” suggested Phil, touching his hat to Mr. Sparling, who, he had discovered, was some person in authority. “The cage may tip clear over on the other side, or it may drop so heavily on the wheels as to break the axles.”
“Right. Brace the off side. That’s right. Now let it down slowly. Not so hard on the nigh side there. Ease off there, Bill. Push, Patsy. What do you think this is—a game of croquet? There you go. Right. Now let’s see if you woodenheads know enough to keep the wagon right side up.”
Mr. Sparling took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, while Phil stood off calmly surveying the men who were straightening the wagon, but with more caution than they had exercised before.
“Come here, boy.”
Someone touched Phil on the arm.
“What is it?”
“Boss wants to speak to you.”
“Who?”
“Boss Sparling, the fellow over there with the big voice and the sombrero.”
Phil walked over and touched his hat to Mr. Sparling.