“That indeed! what else my lad?”
“I can milk cows, and reap grain, and thrash wheat, and break flax.”
“What else?”
“I can hoe turnips, mow grass, and stook up grain.”
“That is a great deal more than I expected,” said Whitman.
The money was paid, and the writings drawn, at the miller’s desk who was a justice. James made his mark at the bottom of the articles of agreement, and Mr. Whitman gave an agreement to him, after reading and explaining it to him.
When they left the mill three barrels of flour were lying at the tail of Mr. Whitman’s wagon.
“Jim,” said Wilson, “put those barrels into that cart.”
He took hold of the barrels and pitched them one after another into the cart, without bringing a flush to his pale cheek, though it burst open the tight fitting jacket across the shoulders,—while Peter clapped his hands in mingled pleasure and wonder.
“You won’t find many boys, Mr. Whitman, who can do that, and there are twenty men who can’t do it, where there is one who can. He’ll break pitchfork handles for you, when he gets his hand in, and his belly full of Pennsylvania bread and beef.”