Ben picked out the tree, marked out the direction of the kerf on the bark with his axe, and left him. When Charlie came in to dinner, the perspiration stood in drops on his face, and he was as red as a turkey-cock.
“Well,” said Joe, “have you got through the bark?”
“Almost,” replied Charlie.
At night the boy showed evident signs of fatigue.
“Let me look at your hands,” said Ben. There were large blisters on each; he pricked them with a needle, and Sally rubbed some butter on them.
“I’ll give you a dozen or two of my round cuts in the morning,” said Joe.
“O, no; I don’t want you to. I can cut it down.”
“Perhaps I shall go out after you are abed, and cut it down.”
“O, don’t,” cried the boy, his eyes filling with tears at the very possibility of such a catastrophe.
“He don’t mean to do any such thing,” said Sally; “he’s only in fun; nobody shall touch the tree.”