Farmers were hurrying back and forth across fields, leaving up turned lines of black, swampy mould behind them, and one progressive individual rode a wheeled plow, drove three horses and enjoyed the shelter of a canopy.
"Saints preserve us, Belshazzar!" cried the Harvester.

"Do you see that?
He is one of the men who makes a business of calling me shiftless.

Now he thinks he is working.

Working! For a full-grown man, did you ever see the equal?
If I were going that far I'd wear a tucked shirt, panama hat, have a pianola attachment, and an automatic fan." The Harvester laughed as he again touched Betsy and hurried to Onabasha.
He scarcely saw the delights offered on either hand, and where his eyes customarily took in every sight, and his ears were tuned for the faintest note of earth or tree top, to day he saw only Betsy and listened for a whistle he dreaded to hear at the water tank.

He climbed the embankment of the railway at a slower pace, but made up time going down hill to the city.
"I am not getting a blame thing out of this," he complained to Belshazzar.