"It's a donkey, sir."
Bertie's mamma had taught him to be polite to every one.
Both the men came up to the creature, patted him, felt of his ears, and one began to pull his mouth open.
"Please, sir, don't hurt him," urged Bertie, twitching the reins. But, then, looking at the patient oxen, he said,—"Will you please tell me why you don't have a cart instead of that flat board?"
"'Tisn't a board; it's a heavy piece of plank; and it's called a drag. If you're over at the place presently, you'll see what it's for. Come, Bright," he shouted, touching the ox nearest him. "Gee up."
The other man followed, though he often looked back, laughing to see the donkey carriage and the little boy driver.
"There's a good bit of things in the world that we never see," he said to his companion. "The Squire's son is a pert little chap, isn't he now?"
"He's the politest young un I ever see," was Tom's answer.
Bertie, meanwhile, drove through the field,—there was quite a good road now,—and on by the lake to Woodlawn. His father was standing near a company of men who were digging with spades, throwing the dirt out behind them.