THE HORSE HEAVER
By Lyman Bryson
“For why should you be tired?” demanded his wife, splashing her arms viciously in the suds as she finished the day’s rinsing. “You’ve nothing to do but shovel dirt all day and rest when your boss ain’t looking.”
“Gwan, I’m a hard-working man,” said Kallaher. “And, what’s more, I can kick about it whenever I want to without any remarks from yourself. I’m tired. When’s supper?”
“Supper is any time when I can get my arms dry and get a good breath.” Mrs. Kallaher began belligerently to get his supper.
Kallaher stretched his short legs out in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “It was a hard day,” he said gently. “As if it wasn’t enough to have me breaking my back with the shovel and all, a fool drove his horse too close to the ditch, and the dumb beast fell in on top of me.”
“That’s likely—now, ain’t it?—and you being here to tell about it!”
“Believe it or not, it happened.” Kallaher folded his hands across the place where he didn’t wear a belt and sighed. “But I put him out again and went on with my work without taking a rest or nothing.”
Mrs. Kallaher might have tried again to express her incredulity, but just then old Mother Coogan, next-door neighbour, thrust a red excited face through the kitchen door.
“Mary Kallaher, is your man home?”