A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words.
“You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers,” said Alec Murray. “There ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's work, Ben, ten acres.”
Ben gave a snort. “Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men.” He had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose hands he had suffered many things.
“Two men!” shouted Sammy. “Your gang, I suppose you mean.”
Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. “Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!” he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. “Them's the two, if yeh want to know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there.” Ben threw his h's recklessly about. “You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never seed any.”
At this moment “King” Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop.
“Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?” he exclaimed.
Ben grew suddenly quiet. “Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess,” he growled.
“What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised,” said the “Old King,” addressing the crowd generally.
“Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang,” said his son Sam.