"Fine work, Tim," said Cameron quietly, "and you can do better yet." For
a few paces he walked behind the boy, steadying him now and then with
a quiet word, then, recognising that the crisis of the struggle was at
hand, and believing that the boy had still some reserve of speed and
strength, he began to call on him.
"Come on, Tim! Quicker, quicker; come on, boy, you can do better!" His
words, and his tone more than his words, were like a spur to the boy.
From some secret source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve
of strength and speed and, still keeping up his clean cutting finished
style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, who followed in the rear,
slashing more wildly than ever. The race was practically won. Tim was
well in the lead, and apparently gaining speed with every click of his
hoe.
"Here, you fellers, what are yeh hashin' them turnips for?" It was
Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come into the field. Tim's reply
was a letting out of his last ounce of strength in a perfect fury of
endeavour.
"There--ain't--no--hashin'--on this--drill--Dad!" he panted.
The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once lowered Perkins'
rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind and, after a few moments of
further struggle, threw down his hoe with a whoop and called out,
"Quitting time, I guess," and, striding after Tim, he caught him by the
arms and swung him round clear off the ground.
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