IN THE weeks that followed, it was hard for Joel to pay attention to his work. He kept seeing Little Bub in the back of his mind, seeing him go lickety-split after the hound-dog, or just capering for the fun of it. And in the sound of the millwheel he kept hearing the high, bugling neigh. And often, when no one was looking, he would sniff his jacket to smell the very essence of Little Bub!
In whatever Joel was doing—gathering stones for fences, wielding a mattock on stumps in the highway, working inside or outside—the little horse nudged into his thoughts.
One day, when Joel was up inside the chimney sweeping away the soot, his ears picked out three names from the talk going on in the room below: Ezra Fisk, Robert Evans, Justin Morgan. Precariously his fingers clung to the bricks like a bird. If he made the least noise or if his bare feet slid into view, the talk might stop or take a new tack altogether. His toes found a narrow ledge of brick and caught a foothold. His whole body tensed with listening.
“Yup,” a voice was saying, “the schoolmaster’s little horse is turning out to be a crack puller. Already he’s made a nice clearing of about five acres.”
Another voice said, “So the little horse can pull, eh?”
“Yup,” the first voice replied. “Evans brags that the critter can jerk a log right out of its bark!”
A loud guffaw greeted the remark.
In the dark of the chimney Joel smiled in pride. But what if—the smile faded, and worry crept in—what if Evans was working Little Bub too hard? What if he became swaybacked and old before his time?
Joel had to know. Quickly he slid down the chimney and dropped to the hearth. But he was too late. All he saw was the whisk of a coattail and the door to the public room swinging shut, and at the same time Mistress Chase coming at him with a broken lock to be mended.
As the days went by, Joel heard more and more about Little Bub’s labors, and his worry sharpened. At last he talked things over with Miller Chase.
“Why, work don’t hurt horses,” Mister Chase said reassuringly. “It’s t’other way around. Idleness is what really hurts ’em. Their muscles git soft and their lungs git so small they can’t even run without wheezing.”
And so Joel’s mind was eased.
By the time spring came on, Joel and the miller were the best of friends. In the late afternoon while Mistress Chase napped, he often waved Joel away with a smile. “Be off with you now. Have a mite of fun,” he would say.
Joel took delight in these free afternoon hours. At this time of day Chase’s Mill was the liveliest spot on the White River. Farmers would congregate to chat as they waited for the big saw to cut their logs. And often they tested the strength of their horses with a log-pulling contest. Surely, Joel thought, Little Bub must show up some day.
It was on a late afternoon in April that his hopes were realized. The millstream had grown swollen with spring rains, and Mister Chase had taken on a helper to keep the mill sawing logs both night and day.
On this afternoon, when the yard was crowded with farmers, the miller called to Joel. “See the man studying that-there pine log? That’s Nathan Nye. And if Nathan Nye is about, acting mighty important and bossy, you can be expecting most anything to happen. He was ever good at fixing pulling contests.”
Joel watched the jerky-legged man hop from one group to another, like a puppet on a string.
“If I was a boy, now, with no chores to do,” the miller smiled, “it seems like I’d skedaddle right out there and be in the center of things.”
In no time at all Joel was helping Mister Nye wrap tug chains about the huge pine log. A big dappled mare stood waiting to have the chains hooked to her harness.
The mare’s owner, Abel Hooper from Buttonwood Flats, was too busy bragging to be of any help. “A mighty lucky thing I’m first,” he was saying. “Big Lucy and me’ll pull this-here piece o’ kindling onto the logway in one pull. Then you can all hyper on home afore lantern time.”
Abel Hooper had to eat his words. Big Lucy tried hard. She dug her forefeet into the earth and tugged and tugged, but the log barely trembled. Even when he poked her with the prodding stick, she only looked around as if to tell him it was useless.
One after another the work horses had their turn. Yet no matter how whips cracked or masters yelled, the log seemed rooted to earth.
Nathan Nye made a megaphone of his hands. “Folks!” he shouted. “Guess it’s just too hefty for a horse. You men with oxen can have a try now.”
Just then a bearded farmer came riding up on a chunky young stallion. Joel’s heart missed a beat. Could this be Little Bub? This unkempt, mud-coated horse? Why, small as he was, he looked to be a six- or even a seven-year-old! Then Joel grinned as the little stallion let out a high bugle and a rumbling snort.
“Wait!” called the big man astride the little horse. “Here’s a critter wants to try.”
A smile, half scorn, half amusement, crossed Nathan Nye’s face. “Evans,” he said, “ye’re crazy as if ye’d burnt yer shirt. Look at Big Lucy. She’s still blowin’ from the try. And Biggie’s Belgian—his muscles are still a-hitchin’ and a-twitchin’. Even Wiggins’ beast failed. Can’t none of ’em budge that log.”
“None exceptin’ my one-horse team!” crowed Evans.
Fear caught at Joel as a silence fell upon the crowd.
And then came the rain of words, mingled with laughter.
“That little sample of a horse!”
“Why, his tail is long as a kite’s!”
“Yeah, he’s liable to get all tangled up and break a leg.”
“Morgan’s horse,” Evans said slowly, “ain’t exactly what you’d call a drafter, but whatever he’s hitched to generally has to come.”
Joel heard the sharp voice of Mistress Chase calling: “Boy! You come here!”
“Oh, rats!” he muttered under his breath. On the way to the inn he stopped long enough to put his cheek against Little Bub’s. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”
Mistress Chase met him just inside the door with a kettle of hasty pudding. “Hang the kettle over the fire,” she commanded, “and stir and stir until I tell you to quit.”
He hung the kettle on the crane and set to work. “Hasty pudding!” Joel cried to himself. “It beats me how it got its name! Nothing quick about this!” Suddenly he heard the clump of boots and looked around to see Evans, followed by a little company of men, strut into the inn.
“Madam Innkeeper!” Evans called. “I’m wagering a barrel o’ cider that my horse can move the pine log. But now, pour me a mugful. I’m dying of thirst.”
Joel was stirring so vigorously he almost upset the pudding. Mistress Chase let out a shriek. “Boy! Mind what you’re doing! Hasty pudding’s not meant to feed the fire!”
For once he paid no heed. He tore across the room and grabbed Mister Evans by the sleeve. “Sir!’ he cried. “Little Bub’s been working hard all day. Please don’t ask him to pull that big log.”
Evans gulped his drink. “Go ’way,” he snapped in annoyance. “When I want advice, I’ll not ask it of a whipper-snapper. I know that horse!” He stomped out of doors, the others joking and laughing behind him.
While Joel stirred the pudding, he kept looking out the window. He could see Little Bub nibbling all the fresh green shoots within his range. And he could see the men sizing him up, feeling of his legs, then making their wagers.
One by one, the stars dusted the sky. Nathan Nye brought out a lantern so that Evans could see to fasten the tug chains to the log.
“I just got to go out there now!” Joel pleaded. “Ma’am, if you please, could I?”
Mistress Chase nodded. “You’re stirring so strong that hasty pudding’s heaving like a sea. Go on! Git out, afore ye upset it.”
“Oh, thanks, ma’am,” Joel murmured as he bolted for the door, vaulted over a barrel of cider, and ran to the mill, where Evans was stepping off ten rods.
“Aye, fellers!” he was saying. “Bub can do it—in two pulls.” He turned around, almost stumbling over the boy. “A nettle hain’t half as pesky as you,” he growled. “Out of my way or I’ll clout you!”
Nathan Nye shouted to Evans. “Mebbe you’d oughter listen to the lad. Want to give up afore you start?”
“No such-a-thing! Why, I’m actually ashamed to ask Morgan’s horse to pull a splinter like this. Now, if you’ll find me three stout men to sit astride the log, why, then I’ll ask him.”
Joel ran to Little Bub. “Oh, my poor little feller,” he choked. “None of the big critters could do it, and now with three men besides!—Oh, Bub, Bub . . . ”
Laughter was ringing up and down the valley. “Ho-ho-ho—that pint-sized cob to pull such a big log! Ho-ho . . . ”
Nathan Nye had no trouble at all in finding three brawny volunteers. As the men straddled the log, they joked and laughed and poked one another in the ribs.
“Look to your feet, men!” warned Evans. “This horse means business. Something’s got to give.”
Nye held the lantern aloft. It lighted the huddle of faces. They were tense with excitement. Some of the men were placing last-minute bets. Some were chewing madly on wisps of hay. Others twirled their hats and wrung them nervously. Joel felt as if he were going to be sick.
Evans repeated his warning. “Look to your feet, men!”
Someone tittered.
Then the silence exploded as Evans roared, “Git up!”
The sharp word of command galvanized the little horse into action. His muscles swelled and grew firm. He backed ever so slightly. He lowered his head, doubling down into the harness. He lunged, half falling to his knees, straining forward, throwing his whole weight into the collar.
A hush closed around the gathering. It hung heavy and ominous. Suddenly the very earth seemed to shake. The chains were groaning, the log itself trembling as if it had come alive. It began to skid. It was moving! The stout man aboard laughed hysterically, then sobered, trying to balance himself, clutching onto the others. The log kept on moving. It was halfway to the mill!
The horse’s breath whistled in his lungs. His nostrils flared red in exertion. Sweat broke out on his body, lathering at the collar and traces. Joel, too, was drenched in sweat. He was struggling, straining, panting as if he were yoked alongside Little Bub.
Now the terrible silence again as the horse stood to catch his wind. There was no sound at all from the crowd. Overhead a robin, trying to get settled for the night, chirped insistently.
Now Evans commanded again. And again the horse backed slightly, then snatched the log into motion. Again the log was sliding, sliding, sliding. This time it did not stop until it reached the sawmill!
