“And we shan't even know where we've gone wrong with your new carriage drive before that time either,” said Cloke, ever anxious to keep the balance true with an ounce or two in Sophie's favour. The past four months had taught George better than to reply. The carriage road winding up the hill was his present keen interest. They set off to look at it, and the imported American scraper which had blighted the none too sunny soul of “Skim” Winsh, the carter.
But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance, Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains.
“You lif' her like that, an' you tip her like that,” he explained to the gang. “My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut.”
“Are they roads yonder?” said Skim, sitting under the laurels.
“No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 'em. They'd suit you, Skim.”
“Why?” said the incautious Skim.
“Cause you'd take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on a Saturday,” was the answer.
“I didn't last time neither,” Skim roared.
After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly, “Well, dirt or no dirt, there's no denyin' Chapin knows a good job when he sees it. 'E don't build one day and dee-stroy the next, like that nigger Sangres.”
“SHE's the one that knows her own mind,” said Pinky, brother to Skim Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who had helped to bring the grand piano across the fields in the autumn rains.