poise of his head hurt Randal in its dear familiarity.
“That the stump you started last week, Randal? Don’t wonder my father’s complaining about the work here if this is the way you go at it! Pick up that jack and shove it in. Buck; get those brutes going and look sharp. Get them going, I tell you.”
Randal’s bleeding hands shut on the grip of the jack. Mogger handled the bar in a new carefulness. Up in the closing night sounded the chain-clank, and the thunder of beating hoofs, and of labouring breaths. And just so easily might three horses have pulled the earth out of position in the sky. Art Scannell came down from his mare.
“What are you doing with all that foolery? Get a straight pull, I tell———”
Randal climbed up to explain the value of the side-pull.
“It gives you a sixty-horse power ’stead of three———”
Art Scannell turned on his heel. Somewhere in his sodden brain he connected Randal with that week of horror in the whare by Lonely Hill, and he did not love him therefor.
“Take that rigging off—now, make ’em pull. Make them pull, will you? Here; let me get at them———”
He came with a stirrup-iron, and Buck blocked him desperately.
