That night Reuben came to supper as hungry as a wolf. He was in a fine good humour, for his body, pleasantly tired, glowing, aching, tickled with the smell of food, was giving him a dozen agreeable sensations.
"Got some splendid fire-wood fur you, mother," he said after a few minutes' silence enforced by eating.
"And wot about the rootses?" asked Harry, "wull you be digging those out to-morrer? It'll be an unaccountable tough job."
"Oh, I've found a way of gitting shut of them rootses—thought of it while I wur working at the trees. I'm going to blast 'em out."
"Blast 'em!"
"Yes. Blast 'em wud gunpowder. I've heard of its being done. I'd never dig all the stuff out myself—yards of it there be—willer rootses always wur hemmed spready."
"It's never bin done in these parts."
"Well, it'll be done now, surelye. It'll show the folk here I mean business—and that I'm a chap wud ideas."
There was indeed a mild excitement in the farms round Boarzell when Reuben's new plan became known. In those times gunpowder was seldom used for such purposes, and the undertaking was looked upon as a treat and a display....
"Backfield's going to bust up his willer-rootses—fine sight it'll be—like as not blow his own head off—I'll be there to see."