"Well, how about you, Chris?" Charley inquired.
The little negro grinned. "Golly, Massa Charley, I reckon I'm pretty well satisfied as I is. Don't reckon you-alls ebber seed a nigger but was willing to lay around in de sun all day an' do nothin' but eat an' fish, but if you-alls are goin' into any foolish projectin's, I reckon dis nigger will hab to go along to keep you outer trouble."
"Then it's settled," Charley declared with satisfaction. "We will get an early start in the morning and drive out and see just how things are going."
Thus settled, an early hour next morning found them on the way, drawn in a rickety wagon behind a lean mule with a wicked-looking eye. There was no danger of their losing their way for the machine-made road stretched out before them a smoothed mound of earth flanked on each side by deep ditches made by the removed dirt. At places the road was raised a full four feet above the surrounding land, while at other places it descended gradually to a mere two feet.
Charley viewed it with satisfaction. "That's the kind of work I want to do," he said. "The kind of work that creates something, that helps people, gives them employment, and makes them happy. Take that road, for instance," he continued dreamily, "of course it is only a road, but it will open up the way to thousands of acres of rich land, and give thousands of people a chance to own a home and farm."
"Yes," agreed the Captain testily, who was hot and sweating under the blazing sun, "and it will drive away the Indians from their last hunting ground, and the people who will flock in will be Huns, Polacks and Japs, and most of them will die off with the malaria, and the rest, after they have raised their crops, will find it costs them more to get them to market than they are worth. Say, Chris, can't you spread more sail on that craft of yours? I allow that there ain't much breeze, but surely it can do more than a mile an hour."
Chris, who was driving the melancholy beast, obediently leaned forward and brought his tattered hat down on the mule's flank. "Get up, you Clarence; wake up, you mule," he shouted—and Clarence woke up. What had simply been before a saddened, downcast, plodding mule, became a marvel of upstanding ears, bared teeth and flying hoofs. Charley landed with a bump on the side of the road. Walter, close beside him, and the Captain not far away, while Chris, disdaining solid ground, lit far over in the ditch of stagnant water and mud. The cart, a battered wreck in front, with one thill gone, still remained, while Clarence, still enveloped in his harness and dragging the other thill behind him, with leaping bounds was headed back for home.
Captain Westfield arose slowly and painfully, and felt gently of his trousers' seat. "I reckon Chris crowded on a wee bit too much sail," he said mildly.
Chris crawled out of the ditch, spitting out mud and water. "Golly, dat Clarence sho' can move some," he exclaimed admiringly, as he gazed after the vanishing mule. "Who would hab thought dat a little slap of the hat could liven him up so?"
"I don't think it was that, at all," laughed Walter, as he regained his feet. "I believe he took offense at being called Clarence, as any self-respecting mule would—probably his real name is Maud."