"What are you doing, you contrary thief?" said the master.
"An' ain't I strivin' to hold this divil of a plow, as you told me;
but that ounkrawn of a boy keeps whipping on the bastes in spite of
all I say; will you speak to him?"
"No, but I'll speak to you. Didn't you know, you bosthoon, that when I
said 'holding the plow,' I meant reddening [plowing up] the ground?"
"Faith, an' if you did, I wish you had said so. Do you blame me for
what I have done?"
The master caught himself in time, but he was so stomached
[disconcerted], he said nothing.
"Go on and redden the ground now, you knave, as other plowmen do."
"An' are you sorry for our agreement?"
"Oh, not at all, not at all!"
Jack plowed away like a good workman all the rest of the day.
In a day or two the master bade him go and mind the cows in a field
that had half of it under young corn. "Be sure, particularly," said
he, "to keep Browney from the wheat; while she's out of mischief
there's no fear of the rest."
About noon he went to see how Jack was doing his duty, and what did he
find but Jack asleep with his face to the sod, Browney grazing near a
thorn-tree, one end of a long rope round her horns, and the other end
round the tree, and the rest of the beasts all trampling and eating
the green wheat.
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