More chops with the hoe, and clinks of the fetters.
“His pleasing voice...”
A heavy thump with the back of the tool at an obstinate clod, which took several more strokes before it crumbled up; and all the time the fetters clinked and clanked loudly. Then the singer went on with the sweet old minor air with its childish words.
“Did my heart ensnare...”
Chop! chop! clink! clink! clank!
“Genteel he was...”
“But no rake like you.”
“Oh, I say, Abel, mate; don’t, lad, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” said Abel Dell, resting upon his hoe, and looking up at big Bart Wrigley, clothed like himself, armed with a hoe, and also decorated with fetters, as he stood wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“Don’t sing that there old song. It do make me feel so unked.”