Charlie reefed the reins at once,
completely turning off the power. Then he put the reins about his neck,
grasped the handles of the plow with both hands, and zoomed commands
again at the champing power. "Power" jumped ahead. The reins nearly
snapped old Charlie's head off, but effectually brought the mare to a
standstill.
"Vait, you dunder-undt-blitzen apful peelings! You - you think dot
plowing is not high-toned enough, yet - hey? Vell, I show you!"
He picked up a huge clod of soft dirt held it aloft in both hands and
banged it down on Lizzie's back - whereupon she promptly ran away! She
galloped furiously to the end of the field with the plow banging in
scoops and leaps, and old Charlie, dangling on the end of the reins,
flying along in seven-league jumps behind her. As soon as he caught his
breath sufficiently for renewed directions, the cavalcade returned to
the grandstand and operations were repeated.
Charlie had been a sailor before he came to California, and he plowed
(?) each furrow with a collection of forceful admonitions, delivered in
a voice of thunder, from a different language.
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