“Wan more, now!” rasped Pat, hoarse with bossing at top speed. “Wan more, an’ yez can stop an’ have the rist o’ the day off.”
“You’ve got the time, but no time to spare,” snapped General Casement. He was getting nervous.
“Aw, they’ll make it,” said Terry, to George and Virgie. “But I’m sort of tired, myself. We’ll have stood around for eight miles, by night. How you feeling, Virgie?”
“I’m all right.”
“It’s toughest on Jenny. Look at her. She’s about all in,” spoke George.
That was the truth. Old Jenny’s yellow hide was dark and dirty and dank with sweat. Her nostrils flared, her ribs heaved, her eyes were wide and bulging, her breath sounded wheezily, and as she toiled down and up again, kicked vigorously by Jimmie Muldoon’s brother, she frequently stumbled.
“Her legs are giving out,” Terry pronounced. “Poor old Jenny. She’s come a long way.”
“Guess so,” George agreed. “They ought to let her quit, after today, and put her on a pension.”
The eight-mile stake was in sight; the men were on their last spurt. The sun had set behind the Wasatch. That made no difference. The sun set early, these days, here.
“Down! Down!” “Whang! Whang! Whangity-whang!” The brisk chorus never ceased; the men never faltered. Some of them, too, staggered and stumbled, but they didn’t miss a step or a blow. They all were wringing wet. Several had lost their hats—they didn’t pause to pick them up.