"I guess you be, mum."
"Who's to be suited with this work, you, Mr. Hard, or I?"
"I hain't thought nothin' about that."
"Do you mean to say that it makes no difference whether I am suited or not?"
"What yer got agin the work?"
"I want my garden plowed, not scratched. You don't plow half deep enough, and you are injuring the shrubs and flowers in the borders."
"I guess I know more about plowin' than you do. Gee up thar!" to the horses, that seemed inclined to be Edith's allies by not moving.
"Stop!" she cried, "I will not pay you a cent for this work, and wish you to leave this garden instantly."
"Mr. Hard told me to plow this garding and I'm a-goin' to plow it. I never seed the day's work I didn't git paid for yit, and you'll pay for this. Git up thar, you cussed old critters," and the man struck the horses sharply with a lump of dirt. Away went the crazy rattling old automaton round and round the garden in spite of all she could do.
She was half beside herself with vexation, which was increased by Zell's convulsed laughter on the porch, but she stormed at the old plowman as vainly as a robin might remonstrate with a windmill.