Sam turned very slowly, groaning with each revolution of the crank.
"You lazy scamp! I'll cut a sprout, and lay it on your back, if you don't work smarter!"
"Can't!" muttered Sam. "'Most dead. Han't done nothing but turn grindstone since sunrise. Didn't eat no breakfast, nuther."
The grinding apparatus stood under an apple-tree, behind the house. The spot was retired, offering conveniences for the adjustment of private differences; and Chester, who did not return to farm labor, after being so long at school, in very good humor, quietly clipped a thin green sapling from the roots of the tree.
"I haven't settled with you for the caper you cut up with Frank, the other night," he said, between his teeth. "Now go to work, and hold your tongue, or I'll make you wish the horse had run with you to the end of the world, and jumped off!"
"Better not hit me with that!" muttered Sam, growing desperate.
"Will you turn the grindstone?"
There was something dangerous in the flash of Chester's eye, and Sam was afraid to disobey. A minute later, he was glad to see Mr. Royden coming through the orchard, with his hat in his hand, and his sweaty brow exposed to the summer breeze.
"I am afraid you don't know how to grind a tool," said he, smiling indulgently, as he examined the edge of the scythe.
"I will go and mow in your place, if you will finish it," replied Chester.