"Need some help? I'm ready to take a hand. Got on my regimentals this morning."
Grant looked at him a moment. "You look it."
Howard smiled. "Gimme a hold on that fork, and I'll show you. I'm not so soft as I look, now you bet."
He laid hold upon the fork in Grant's hands, who released it sullenly and stood back sneering. Howard struck the fork into the pile in the old way, threw his left hand to the end of the polished handle, brought it down into the hollow of his thigh, and laid out his strength till the handle bent like a bow. "Oop she rises!" he called laughingly, as the whole pile began slowly to rise, and finally rolled upon the high load.
"Oh, I ain't forgot how to do it," he laughed, as he looked around at the boy, who was eyeing the tennis suit with a devouring gaze.
Grant was studying him, too, but not in admiration.
"I shouldn't say you had," said the old man, tugging at the forkful.
"Mighty funny to come out here and do a little of this. But if you had to come here and do it all the while, you wouldn't look so white and soft in the hands," Grant said, as they moved on to another pile. "Give me that fork. You'll be spoiling your fine clothes."
"Oh, these don't matter. They're made for this kind of thing."
"Oh, are they? I guess I'll dress in that kind of a rig. What did that shirt cost? I need one."