“Fine work, Tim,” said Cameron quietly, “and you can do better yet.” For a few paces he walked behind the boy, steadying him now and then with a quiet word, then, recognising that the crisis of the struggle was at hand, and believing that the boy had still some reserve of speed and strength, he began to call on him.
“Come on, Tim! Quicker, quicker; come on, boy, you can do better!” His words, and his tone more than his words, were like a spur to the boy. From some secret source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve of strength and speed and, still keeping up his clean cutting finished style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, who followed in the rear, slashing more wildly than ever. The race was practically won. Tim was well in the lead, and apparently gaining speed with every click of his hoe.
“Here, you fellers, what are yeh hashin' them turnips for?” It was Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come into the field. Tim's reply was a letting out of his last ounce of strength in a perfect fury of endeavour.
“There—ain't—no—hashin'—on this—drill—Dad!” he panted.
The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once lowered Perkins' rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind and, after a few moments of further struggle, threw down his hoe with a whoop and called out, “Quitting time, I guess,” and, striding after Tim, he caught him by the arms and swung him round clear off the ground.
“Here, let me go!” gasped the boy, kicking, squirming, and trying to strike his antagonist with his hoe.
“Let the boy go!” said Cameron. The tone in his voice arrested Perkins' attention.
“What's your business?” he cried, with an oath, dropping the boy and turning fiercely upon Cameron.
“Oh, nothing very much, except that Tim's my candidate in this race and he mustn't be interfered with,” replied Cameron in a voice still quiet and with a pleasant smile.
Perkins was white and panting; in a moment more he would have hurled himself at the man who stood smiling quietly in his face. At this critical moment Haley interposed.