“Come on, Tom, and let’s get it done,” cried Dick. “Here, give us the rope.”
He took the rope, fastened it to one of the roots, and then joined the traces together, and tied the rope about them.
After this the donkey was turned so that his head was toward the sharp slope, leading to the Priory on the Toft, and a start was made. That is to say, the donkey tightened the traces, stuck his hoofs into the ground, tugged for a minute without moving the stump, and then gave up.
“Why, Mester Dick, yow’ll have to get root on a sled or she weant move.”
“Oh, we’ll do it directly!” cried Dick. “Here, Tom, you give a good shove behind. Now, then, pull up!”
Tom thrust with all his might, while Dick dragged at the donkey’s head-stall, and once more, after offering a few objections, Solomon tightened the traces and rope, and tugged with all his might, but the root did not move.
“Yow weant move her like that, I tell you, lad,” said Hickathrift.
“Won’t I!” cried Dick angrily; “but I just will. You Tom, you didn’t half push.”
“Shall I give her a throost?” said the wheelwright, smiling.
That smile annoyed Dick, who read in it contempt, when it was only prompted by good temper.