XXIV.
THE THUNDER-STORM.
Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up the load.
They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return, Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the way.
"I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone.
"Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch."
"Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do."
Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or be buried.
A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling and darkening the field.