The horses, dripping with sweat, and with patches of foam under their harness, moved round and round steadily to the cheery whistle of the driver.
The wild, imperious song of the bell-metal cog-wheel had sung into Milton's ears till it had become a torture, and every time he lifted his eyes to the beautiful far-off sky, where the clouds floated like ships, a lump of rebellious anger rose in his throat.

Why should he work in this choking dust and deafening noise while the hawks could sail and sweep from hill to hill with nothing to do but play?
Occasionally his uncle, the feeder, smiled down upon him, his face black as a negro, great goggles of glass and wire-cloth covering his merry eyes.

His great good-nature shone out in the flash of his white teeth, behind his dusky beard, and he tried to encourage Milton with his smile.
He seemed tireless to the other hands.

He was so big and strong.

He had always been Milton's boyish hero.