“It acts to me, with this light wind a blowin’, as ef there’d be lots o’ fog adriftin’ all day. But fog or no fog,” replied Raner, “we mus’ keep a steppin’.”
At Raner’s suggestion the stroke was resumed, and the mowers gave no further heed to the fog whose mysterious depths had shut them in, and severed, as it seemed, all connection with the little world they knew.
Round and round they mowed, bout after bout, swinging their blades with the same lively stroke. For three hours Alibee stood the driving well, and then all of a sudden he broke out with, “This ’ere ain’t squar’—it’s urgin’ the thing a little too much. My scythe’s losin’ her edge; the ol’ rule is to whet at ev’ry corner, an’ drink at ev’ry round.”
“Well, ain’t we drunk at ev’ry round?” answered Layn; “an’ I took notice thet you swilled ez long ez any on us.”
“Thet I’ll ’low,” said Josh; “but we ain’t whet at ev’ry corner. Thet’s my p’int. Th’ ain’t nuthin’ much made, ez I kin see, by drivin’ so like the devil. You’ll wear me threadbare afore sundown, keepin’ me here in the middle. It’s the hardest place to mow in, by a darn sight.”
“Joshua,” said Raner, “I thought you Manor men wuz all such cracked mowyers. Here’s Layn an’ me, we’re only common mowyers, an’ you can’t keep your end up with us, hey?”
“Yes, I kin,” replied Josh; “but what’s the use o’ killin’ yerself. We can’t cut this ere medder to-day nohow, an’ I don’t see the use o’ workin’ hard ez you kin swing, an’ goin’ home middle to-morrer to do nuthin’ all the arternoon. By gosh,” he continued, sighing, as if partly exhausted, “I’m darned ef I don’t b’lieve some sort o’ contrivance could be rigged up to do this ere mowin’.”
“What sort o’ a contrivance, Josh?” quickly inquired Layn.
“Why, thar could be three ur four scythes hitched on to a post to swing round, an’ cut twice ez fast ez we’re doin’ on it. An’ one o’ these ere days some ere feller’ll rig up jist sich a machine.”