Kalman concentrated his attention upon the process of hitching the team to the harrows, and then followed Mackenzie up and down the field as he harrowed in the oats.  It seemed a simple enough matter to guide the team across the ploughed furrows, and Kalman, as he observed, grew ambitious.

“Let me drive,” he said at length.

“Hoot! toot! boy, you would be letting them run away with you.”

“Aw, cut it out!” said Kalman scornfully.

“What are you saying?  Cut what?”

“Oh, give us a rest!”

“A rest, iss it?  You will be getting tired early.  And who is keeping you from a rest?” said Mackenzie, whose knowledge of contemporary slang was decidedly meagre.

“Let me drive once,” pleaded the boy.

“Well, try it, and I will walk along side of you,” said Mackenzie, with apparent reluctance.

The attempt was eminently successful, but Kalman was quick both with hands and head.  After the second round Mackenzie allowed the boy to go alone, remaining in the shade and calling out directions across the field.  The result was to both a matter of unmixed delight.  With Kalman there was the gratification of the boy’s passion for the handling of horses, and as for Mackenzie, while on the trail or on the river, he was indefatigable, in the field he had the Indian hatred of steady work.  To lie and smoke on the grass in the shade of a poplar bluff on this warm shiny spring day was to him sheer bliss.

But after a time Mackenzie grew restless.  His cup of bliss still lacked a drop to fill it.

“Just keep them moving,” he cried to Kalman.  “I will need to go to the house a meenit.”

“All right.  Don’t hurry for me,” said Kalman, proud of his new responsibility and delighted with his new achievement.

“Keep them straight, mind.  And watch your turning,” warned Mackenzie.  “I will be coming back soon.”

In less than half an hour he returned in a most gracious frame of mind.

“Man, but you are the smart lad,” he said as Kalman swung his team around.  “You will be making a great rancher, Tommy.”

“My name is Kalman.”

“Well, well, Callum.  It iss a fery good name, whatefer.”

“Kalman!” shouted the boy.

Mackenzie nodded grave rebuke.

“There is no occasion for shouting.  I am not deef, Callum, my boy.  Go on.  Go on with your harrows,” he continued as Kalman began to remonstrate.

Kalman drew near and regarded him narrowly.  The truth was clear to his experienced eyes.

“You’re drunk,” he exclaimed disgustedly.

“Hoot, toot!  Callum man,” said Mackenzie in tones of grieved remonstrance, “how would you be saying that now?  Come away, or I will be taking the team myself.”

“Aw, go on!” replied Kalman contemptuously.  “Let me alone!”

“Good boy,” said Mackenzie with a paternal smile, waving the boy on his way while he betook himself to the bluff side and there supine, continued at intervals to direct the operation of harrowing.