It was now an entirely different thing with James. He was stiff and sore, but after he got warmed up, he found that he could strike a great deal better. The old gentleman praised his work and told him he had a mechanical eye and he knew it by his writing, and with practice he would handle any kind of a tool.
The hands of James were now blistered, and Mr. Whitman, who had a large breadth of ground to plough for spring wheat, made out two teams,—Bertie driving John and Charlie for Peter, and James driving Frank and Dick for him.
James proved an excellent driver, and Mr. Whitman was so much gratified, that at night he said to his wife,—
“I believe, after all, that boy is going to make most excellent help, he handles horses as well as anybody, young or old, that I ever had on the place.”
“He has a great memory, and if he learns other things as fast as he learns to read and write, you’ll never regret that you took him.”
“James,” said Mr. Whitman, as they were at work together the next day, “did you ever hold plough?”
“I never was anything but a ploughboy. In England the ploughman does nothing but plough, and in many places drives and holds both, but I have held plough a few hours, and sometimes half a day, when the ploughman was sick or away.”
“Well, take hold of the handles.”
Mr. Whitman took the reins, and James held so well, that his master kept him at it till noon. Peter and Bertie were ploughing in the same field, and they could not help going into the house for a drink, and telling their grandfather that James was holding plough, and their father driving the horses.
While matters were thus pleasantly going on among the Whitmans, the most contradictory stories were circulated in the neighborhood in respect to James.