"Faith, an' if you did, I wish you had said so. Do you blame me for what I have done?"
The master caught himself in time, but he was so stomached [disconcerted], he said nothing.
"Go on and redden the ground now, you knave, as other plowmen do."
"An' are you sorry for our agreement?"
"Oh, not at all, not at all!"
Jack plowed away like a good workman all the rest of the day.
In a day or two the master bade him go and mind the cows in a field that had half of it under young corn. "Be sure, particularly," said he, "to keep Browney from the wheat; while she's out of mischief there's no fear of the rest."
About noon he went to see how Jack was doing his duty, and what did he find but Jack asleep with his face to the sod, Browney grazing near a thorn-tree, one end of a long rope round her horns, and the other end round the tree, and the rest of the beasts all trampling and eating the green wheat. Down came the switch on Jack.
"Jack, you vagabone, do you see what the cows are at?"
"And do you blame me, master?"