Dick had a way of swinging it up with one
hand, resting it in his shoulder, turning his head just so and letting
the water gurgle into his throat. I have never been able myself to reach
this refinement in the art of drinking from a jug.
And oh! the good feel of a straightened back after two long swathes in
the broiling sun! We would stand a moment in the shade, whetting our
scythes, not saying much, but glad to be there together. Then we would
go at it again with renewed energy. It is a great thing to have a
working companion. Many times that day Dick and I looked aside at each
other with a curious sense of friendliness--that sense of friendliness
which grows out of common rivalries, common difficulties and a common
weariness. We did not talk much: and that little of trivial matters.
"Jim Brewster's mare had a colt on Wednesday."
"This'll go three tons to the acre, or I'll eat my shirt."
Dick was always about to eat his shirt if some particular prophecy of
his did not materialize.
"Dang it all," says Dick, "the moon's drawin' water."
"Something is undoubtedly drawing it," said I, wiping my dripping face.
A meadow lark sprang up with a song in the adjoining field, a few heavy
old bumblebees droned in the clover as we cut it, and once a frightened
rabbit ran out, darting swiftly under the orchard fence.
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