tance farther on the
road he positively refused to carry this old truck another step. When
almost to the inn he positively refused to carry this senseless rubbish
another step. The Worcester girls had such vivid contempt for his
expressed unwillingness that they neglected to tell him of any
appreciation they might have had for his noble struggle.

As Hawker and Miss Fanhall proceeded slowly they heard a voice ringing
through the foliage: "Whoa! Haw! Git-ap, blast you! Haw! Haw, drat your
hides! Will you haw? Git-ap! Gee! Whoa!"

Hawker said, "The others are a good ways ahead. Hadn't we better hurry a
little?"

The girl obediently mended her pace.

"Whoa! haw! git-ap!" shouted the voice in the distance. "Git over there,
Red, git over! Gee! Git-ap!" And these cries pursued the man and the
maid.

At last Hawker said, "That's my father."

"Where?" she asked, looking bewildered.

"Back there, driving those oxen."

The voice shouted: "Whoa! Git-ap! Gee! Red, git over there now, will
you? I'll trim the shin off'n you in a minute. Whoa! Haw! Haw! Whoa!
Git-ap!"

Hawker repeated, "Yes, that's my father."

"Oh, is it?" she said. "Let's wait for him."

"All right," said Hawker sullenly.

Presently a team of oxen waddled into view around the curve of the road.
They swung their heads slowly from side to side, bent under the yoke,
and looked out at the world with their great eyes, in which was a mystic
note of their humble, submissive, toilsome lives. An old wagon creaked
after them, and erect upon it was the tall and tattered figure of the
farmer swinging his whip and yelling: "Whoa! Haw there! Git-ap!" The
lash flicked and flew over the broad backs of the animals.

"Hello, father!" said Hawker.

"Whoa! Back! Whoa! Why, hello, William, what you doing here?"

"Oh, just taking a walk. Miss Fanhall, this is my father. Father----"

"How d' you do?" The old man balanced himself with care and then raised
his straw hat from his head with a quick gesture and with what was
perhaps a slightly apologetic air, as if he feared that he was rather
over-doing the ceremonial part.

The girl later became very intent upon the oxen. "Aren't they nice old
things?" she said, as she stood looking into the faces of the team.
"But what makes their eyes so very sad?"

"I dunno," said the old man.

She was apparently unable to resist a desire to pat the nose of the
nearest ox, and for that purpose she stretched forth a cautious hand.