The Doctor [30]
a dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary.
Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, as he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of "Old King" Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the "Old King." But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest and most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" himself driving the reaper.
"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off that table! You bet!"
"How many of you?" asked Ben sharply.
"Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected question.
"How many shocking?" continued Ben, with a judicial air.
"Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!"
"I guess so," grunted Ben, "from what I've seed."
Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows, may I ask?" he inquired with fine scorn.
"Seed? Seed you bindin', of course."
"Well, what are ye hootin' about?" Sam was exceedingly wroth.
"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of excitement Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I used to talk more when I wasn't so busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't had time. When we're on a job," continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through we don't feel like it. We don't need, to."
A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words.
"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. "There ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's work, Ben, ten acres."
Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose hands he had suffered many things.
"Two men!" shouted Sammy. "Your gang, I suppose you mean."
Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!" he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. "Them's the two, if yeh want to know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a- workin', they do. They don't wait to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw his h's recklessly about. "You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never seed any."
At this moment "King" Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop.
"Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?" he exclaimed.
Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess," he growled.
"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old King," addressing the crowd generally.
"Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his son Sam.
"Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy."
"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no awe of his father.
"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter, Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to you?"
"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's" kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout his gang."
"Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers."
"But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben
Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, as he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of "Old King" Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the "Old King." But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest and most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" himself driving the reaper.
"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off that table! You bet!"
"How many of you?" asked Ben sharply.
"Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected question.
"How many shocking?" continued Ben, with a judicial air.
"Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!"
"I guess so," grunted Ben, "from what I've seed."
Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows, may I ask?" he inquired with fine scorn.
"Seed? Seed you bindin', of course."
"Well, what are ye hootin' about?" Sam was exceedingly wroth.
"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of excitement Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I used to talk more when I wasn't so busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't had time. When we're on a job," continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through we don't feel like it. We don't need, to."
A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words.
"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. "There ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's work, Ben, ten acres."
Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose hands he had suffered many things.
"Two men!" shouted Sammy. "Your gang, I suppose you mean."
Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!" he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. "Them's the two, if yeh want to know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a- workin', they do. They don't wait to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw his h's recklessly about. "You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never seed any."
At this moment "King" Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop.
"Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?" he exclaimed.
Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess," he growled.
"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old King," addressing the crowd generally.
"Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his son Sam.
"Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy."
"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no awe of his father.
"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter, Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to you?"
"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's" kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout his gang."
"Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers."
"But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben