The
carriage road winding up the hill was his present keen interest.
They set off to look at it, and the imported American scraper
which had blighted the none too sunny soul of "Skim" Winsh, the
carter.
But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance,
Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains.
"You lif' her like that, an' you tip her like that," he explained
to the gang. "My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut."
"Are they roads yonder?" said Skim, sitting under the laurels.
"No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 'em. They'd
suit you, Skim."
"Why?" said the incautious Skim.
"Cause you'd take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on
a Saturday," was the answer.
"I didn't last time neither," Skim roared.
After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly,
"Well, dirt or no dirt, there's no denyin' Chapin knows a good
job when he sees it. 'E don't build one day and dee-stroy the
next, like that nigger Sangres."
"SHE's the one that knows her own mind," said Pinky, brother to
Skim Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who had helped to bring
the grand piano across the fields in the autumn rains.
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