McGarver's favorite bull, which he called "the Grenadier," took
ten pails and still persisted in leering with dripping gray
mouth beyond the headboard, trying to reach more. As Wrennie
was carrying a pail to the heifers beyond, the Grenadier's horn
caught and tore his overalls. The boat lurched. The pail
whirled out of his hand. He grasped an iron stanchion and
kicked the Grenadier in the jaw till the steer backed off, a
reformed character.

McGarver cheered, for such kicks were a rule of the game.

"Good work," ironically remarked Tim, the weakling hatter.

"You go to hell," snapped Wrennie, and Tim looked much more
respectful.

But Wrennie lost this credit before they had finished feeding
out the hay, for he grew too dizzy to resent Tim's remarks.

Straining to pitch forkfuls into the pens while the boat rolled,
slopping along the wet gangway, down by the bunkers of coal,
where the heat seemed a close-wound choking shroud and the
darkness was made only a little pale by light coming through
dust-caked port-holes, he sneezed and coughed and grunted till
he was exhausted. The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand
impish hands with poisoned nails scratching at the roof of his
mouth. His skin prickled all over. He constantly discovered
new and aching muscles. But he wabbled on until he finished the
work, fifteen minutes after Tim had given out.