His horses were willing and quick enough, but they were ill-trained and needed constant tugging at the lines.

In vain Don shouted and cracked his whip, hurrying his team to his pile and back again; the horses only grew more and more awkward, while they foamed and fretted and tired themselves out.
Behind came Ranald, still humoring his slow-going team with easy hand and quiet voice.

But while he refrained from hurrying his horses, he himself worked hard, and by his good judgment and skill with the chain, and in skidding the logs into his pile, in which his training in the shanty had made him more than a match for any one in the field, many minutes were saved.
When the cowbell sounded for dinner, Aleck's team stepped off for the barn, wet, but fresh and frisky as ever, and in perfect heart.

Don's horses appeared fretted and jaded, while Ranald brought in his blacks with their glossy skins white with foam where the harness had chafed, but unfretted, and apparently as ready for work as when they began.
"You have spoiled the shine of your team," said Aleck, looking over Ranald's horses as he brought them up to the trough.

"Better turn them out for the afternoon.