“Not much of a barrow, Sam,” said Nic.
“Well, it ain’t, Master Nic, and I’d ha’ made another afore now, on’y I can’t get a wheel. The master’s going to get me one first chance, for the wheel bothers me. I could make the box, but wheels want practice. I did try to make one, and I forged a pretty good tire down yonder but the wood part! My word, it was a rickety, wobbly one, and broke down second day. Didn’t teach you to make barrow wheels at school, I suppose?”
“No,” said Nic, laughing. “Wheel-making’s an accomplishment.”
“Then they ought to ha’ taught you. Been strange and useful to you as a squatter, sir. Didn’t teach you to shoe horses nayther, I’ll be bound.”
“No, nor blacksmithing either.”
“Then it’s a shame, sir, for I know the master paid a lot o’ money for you to be well taught. I wish they’d teached you to make wheels, for you see these here soon warps in the hot sun and cracks. But there,” cried the old man, grinning, “there’s hard, sound trees enough to cut down and saw into thousands and thousands of barrow wheels; and as to horseshoeing, I can teach you that, my lad. I shoe all ours, and the master likes my shoes better than those he makes.”
“Does father make horseshoes?”
“Does he make horseshoes?” cried Sam. “Why, I should think he does, and trims a hoof, and nails splendid. He beats me hollow. There he goes—at it again,” muttered the old man, as Brookes’s voice rose. “I wish he’d leave the poor chap alone.”
“Is he bullying Leather again?”
“Ay, my lad; and he’d like to tan Leather too, on’y he daren’t do that. I ’most wish the poor chap’d give him one for his not, and then p’r’aps he’d be quiet with his tongue. Brooky’s never satisfied. He’s like lots of ’em: he thinks, because a chap’s a ’signed servant, he’s to be bullied and kicked. They forgets as a convict is a man arter all.”