Under the dust were signs of a
struggle.
"He's in the yard," said Charlie. "Let's go up."
The cloud of dust shifted from place to place, and out of it came
a medley of weird oaths, the dull thudding of a waddy, and the heavy
breathing of men and animals in combat. Suddenly a lithe, sinewy
black boy, dressed in a short blue shirt, bounded like a squirrel
to the top of the fence and perched there; and through the mist they
saw a very tall old man, holding on like grim death to the end of
a long rope, and being hauled about the yard in great jumps by a
half-grown steer. Behind the steer another black boy dodged in and
out, welting and prodding it from time to time with a bamboo pole.
Maddened by the blows, the steer would dash forward and narrowly
miss impaling the man on his horns; then, taking advantage of his
impetus, the old man would try to haul him into a smaller yard.
Every time he got to the gate the steer yanked him out again by a
series of backward springs that would have hauled along a dromedary,
and the struggle began all over again. The black boy on the fence
dropped down with the agility of a panther, took up the rope behind
the old man, and pulled for all he was worth.
"Hit him there, Billy! Whack him! Come on, you son of a cow! I'll
pull you in if I have to pull your head off.
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