Crack go the whips; but twenty Patriot arms have seized each of the eight bridles: there is rearing, rocking, vociferation; not the smallest headway.

Admiring glebes their amber ears unfold, / And Labour sleep amid the waving gold.

But Boss being Boss could not resist the pictures in his head of toppled portalets, busted light towers, and flat tires across the site.

The departure was not unduly prolonged.[…]Within the door Mrs. Spoker hastily imparted to Mrs. Love a few final sentiments on the subject of Divine Intention in the disposition of buckets; farewells and last commiserations; a deep, guttural instigation to the horse; and the wheels of the waggonette crunched heavily away into obscurity.