e bridge he looked at his watch and shook his head.

"What are you good for at a pinch, Betsy?" he asked as he flecked the
surprised mare's flank with a switch. Belshazzar cocked his ears and
gazed at the Harvester in astonishment.

"That wasn't enough to hurt her," explained the man. "She must speed up.
This is important business. The amount involved is not so much, but I do
love to make good. It's a part of my religion, Bel. And my religion has
so precious few parts that if I fail in the observance of any of them
it makes a big hole in my performances. Now we don't want to end a life
full of holes, so we must get there with this stuff, not because it's
worth the exertion in dollars and cents, but because these men patronize
us steadily and expect us to fill orders, even by telegraph. Hustle,
Betsy!"

The whip fell again and Belshazzar entered indignant protest.

"It isn't going to hurt her," said the Harvester impatiently. "She may
walk all the way back. She can rest while I get these boxes billed and
loaded if she can be persuaded to get them to the express office on
time. The trouble with Betsy is that she wants to meander along the road
with a loaded wagon as her mother and grandmother before her wandered
through the woods wearing a bell to attract the deer. Father used to say
that her mother was the smartest bell mare that ever entered the forest.
She'd not only find the deer, but she'd make friends with them and lead
them straight as a bee-line to where he was hiding. Betsy, you must
travel!"

The Harvester drew the lines taut, and the whip fell smartly. The
astonished Betsy snorted and pranced down the valley as fast as she
could, but every step indicated that she felt outraged and abused. This
was the loveliest day of the season. The sun was shining, the air was
heavy with the perfume of flowering shrubs and trees, the orchards of
the valley were white with bloom. Farmers were hurrying back and forth
across fields, leaving up turned lines of black, swampy mould behind
them, and one progressive individual rode a wheeled plow, drove three
horses and enjoyed the shelter of a canopy.

"Saints preserve us, Belshazzar!" cried the Harvester. "Do you see that?
He is one of the men who makes a business of calling me shiftless. Now
he thinks he is working. Working! For a full-grown man, did you ever see
the equal? If I were going that far I'd wear a tucked shirt, panama hat,
have a pianola attachment, and an automa