Oxen never were studied as much as horses, for they were
considered a temporary shift, and every farmer looked forward to
replacing them with the latter. Oxen were enormously strong, and
they could flourish without grain when the grass was good; they
never lost their head in a swamp hole, and ploughed steadily
among all kinds of roots and stumps; but they were exasperatingly
slow and eternally tricky. Bright, being the trickier of the
two, was made the nigh ox, to be more under control. Ordinarily
Rolf could manage Buck easily, but the present situation seemed
hopeless. In his memory he harked back to Redding days, and he
recalled old Eli Gooch, the ox expert, and wondered what he would
have done. Then, as he sat, he caught sight of the sick ox
reaching out its head and deftly licking up a few drops of bran
mash that had fallen from his yoke fellow's portion. A smile
spread over Rolf's face. "Just like you; you think nothing's good
except it's stolen. All right; we'll see." He mixed a big dose of
medicine, with bran, as before. Then he tied Bright's head so
that he could not reach the ground, and set the bucket of mash
half way between the two oxen. "Here ye are, Bright," he said, as
a matter of form, and walked out of the stable; but, from a
crack, he watched. Buck saw a chance to steal Bright's bran; he
looked around; Oh, joy! his driver was away. He reached out
cautiously; sniffed; his long tongue shot forth for a first
taste, when Rolf gave a shout and ran in. "Hi, you old robber!
Let that alone; that's for Bright."

The sick ox was very much in his own stall now, and stayed there
for some time after Rolf went to resume his place at the
peephole. But encouraged by a few minutes of silence, he again
reached out, and hastily gulped down a mouthful of the mixture