"Yes, that's my work," said Sophie. (Billy Beartup of Griffons, a
woodman by training and birth, a tenant farmer by misfortune of
marriage, had laid his broad axe at her feet a month before.)
"Sorry if I've committed you to another eternity."

"And we shan't even know where we've gone wrong with your new
carriage drive before that time either," said Cloke, ever anxious
to keep the balance true with an ounce or two in Sophie's favour.
The past four months had taught George better than to reply. The
carriage road winding up the hill was his present keen interest.
They set off to look at it, and the imported American scraper
which had blighted the none too sunny soul of "Skim" Winsh, the
carter.

But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance,
Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains.

"You lif' her like that, an' you tip her like that," he explained
to the gang. "My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut."

"Are they roads yonder?" said Skim, sitting under the laurels.

"No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 'em. They'd
suit you, Skim."

"Why?" said the incautious Skim.

"Cause you'd take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on
a Saturday," was the answer.