Down would go the plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull
on the reins, Dave would haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would
rush up and kick the colt on the root of the tail, and if that did n't
make him put his leg over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his
heel and lamed himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and
fall back on the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was
not a stitch left on him but the winkers.
Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his
silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be
asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though he
never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, swear
with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through the whole
afternoon without repeating himself.
Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive. He had n't gone
once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that had
been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot heavily
upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It clung to him.
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