"I can't be reaching out all the time to catch your forkfuls."
"Just give me time till I learn the hang of it."
I was better with the next load. The waggons came and went one after the other ... there was a light space of rest between waggons. It was like the rest between the rounds of a prizefight.
From the cloudless sky the sun's heat poured down in floods. A monotonous locust was chirr-chirr-chirring from a nearby cottonwood ... and in the long hedge of Osage oranges moaned wood doves....
By noon I had achieved a mechanical swing that helped relieve the physical strain, a swinging rhythm of the hips and back muscles which took the burden off my aching and weaker arms.
That afternoon, late, when the old man drove his waggon up to me for the hundredth time it seemed, he smiled quizzically.
"Well, here you are still, but you're too skinny to stand it another day ... better draw your two bucks from the boss and strike out for Laurel again."
—"that so, Daddy!" and I caught three bundles at once on the tines of my fork and flung them clear to the top, and over. They caught the old man in the midriff.... I heard a sliding about and swearing ... the next moment he was in a heap, on the ground ... on the other side of the waggon.
"What th' hell did ye do that for?"
I looked innocent. "Do what?"