his own hand, even had his own little pocket file to keep it sharp. In a way, he treated his machete as if it were an extension of his arm.
"I don't know," Walter Devon said. "Those things are dangerous, Peter. Only yesterday I had to dress a bad cut."
"I'll be careful, Dad."
"It isn't always a matter of being careful. The fellow yesterday was chopping out some grass. The blade bounced off a stone he didn't see, and slashed his other wrist."
"I'll be extra careful. I promise."
Mr. Devon turned to the headman. "What do you say, Winston?"
"He will be all right, I think, Mr. Devon. It's mostly when they get careless that they have the accidents. He will pay attention."
Again Mr. Devon hesitated. But at last, with a small sigh of surrender, he said, "All right, Peter."
"Here," Mr. Campbell said. "I'll lend you my own cutlass to save you the walk back down. Take this, too." He took a small triangular file from the hip pocket of his khaki pants and handed it over with his machete. "Zackie will show you how to keep the blade sharp."
Elated, Peter thanked them, and a moment later Zackie and he were walking briskly up the main track with field six out of sight behind them and Zackie's little dog romping on ahead. For a little while the two boys walked along in silence, side by side because the track was wide there. Then Zackie said, "Why you want to work with me when you don't have to?"
One reason, Peter thought, was that he hoped to find out where the Jamaican boy had slept the night before, and if he needed help. But there was a bigger reason. "I have to learn about everything that goes on here, Zackie," he said. "I want to stay with my dad and not have to go back to the States again."
"You want to stay in Jamaica?"
"Yes. And he thinks I shouldn't, so I have to convince him he's wrong. Suppose he got sick or something."
"If you daddy got sick, Mr. Campbell would keep things going."
"I know that. But I'd want to be with my dad, wouldn't I?"
Zackie turned his head and gave Peter a curious look. Then he nodded. "That a good way to feel about you daddy," he said gravely. "Me wish it was the same for me."
They climbed again without more talk, and the mountain stillness was disturbed only by the shrill cries of birds as Mongoose flushed them out of the undergrowth and tried vainly to catch them. Peter wondered what the dog would do if he caught one. Try to talk to it, most likely. He talked to everything else.
They came to the place just below field twenty-six where Mr. Campbell had said the ferrel was creeping in. Zackie sharpened his machete by pressing the point of the blade against a tree and rubbing his file over its upturned edge a few times. Peter noticed the file had a handle different from the one on Mr. Campbell's. Both were of wood, but they were not the same shape. He asked about it.
"Them don't come with handles," Zackie explained. "You have to make you own, so you make the kind you like best." He tested the machete blade with his thumb, and then went to work on the ferrel.
After watching him awhile, Peter followed suit.
It was harder than it looked, Peter soon discovered. He had to grasp a clump of waist-high ferrel with his left hand and bend it over, then swing the machete so as to chop it off close to the ground. That meant he had to hold the machete so the blade was almost horizontal and only just above the ground when it hit home. And that meant he had to bend way over from the hips while swinging it, which made his back ache. And in no time at all, the spines on the ferrel made his left hand sore.
He kept at it, though, until Zackie stopped work and said, "Mek we stop for a while, Peter. It don't always being careless that make you have an accident. Sometimes it only from being tired."
While they were resting, Peter remembered what he had overheard the day before, when Zackie talked with Miss Lorrie. Should he mention it? Yes, he decided. In fact, he just about had to if he wanted to help.
"Hey,"
"I don't know," Walter Devon said. "Those things are dangerous, Peter. Only yesterday I had to dress a bad cut."
"I'll be careful, Dad."
"It isn't always a matter of being careful. The fellow yesterday was chopping out some grass. The blade bounced off a stone he didn't see, and slashed his other wrist."
"I'll be extra careful. I promise."
Mr. Devon turned to the headman. "What do you say, Winston?"
"He will be all right, I think, Mr. Devon. It's mostly when they get careless that they have the accidents. He will pay attention."
Again Mr. Devon hesitated. But at last, with a small sigh of surrender, he said, "All right, Peter."
"Here," Mr. Campbell said. "I'll lend you my own cutlass to save you the walk back down. Take this, too." He took a small triangular file from the hip pocket of his khaki pants and handed it over with his machete. "Zackie will show you how to keep the blade sharp."
Elated, Peter thanked them, and a moment later Zackie and he were walking briskly up the main track with field six out of sight behind them and Zackie's little dog romping on ahead. For a little while the two boys walked along in silence, side by side because the track was wide there. Then Zackie said, "Why you want to work with me when you don't have to?"
One reason, Peter thought, was that he hoped to find out where the Jamaican boy had slept the night before, and if he needed help. But there was a bigger reason. "I have to learn about everything that goes on here, Zackie," he said. "I want to stay with my dad and not have to go back to the States again."
"You want to stay in Jamaica?"
"Yes. And he thinks I shouldn't, so I have to convince him he's wrong. Suppose he got sick or something."
"If you daddy got sick, Mr. Campbell would keep things going."
"I know that. But I'd want to be with my dad, wouldn't I?"
Zackie turned his head and gave Peter a curious look. Then he nodded. "That a good way to feel about you daddy," he said gravely. "Me wish it was the same for me."
They climbed again without more talk, and the mountain stillness was disturbed only by the shrill cries of birds as Mongoose flushed them out of the undergrowth and tried vainly to catch them. Peter wondered what the dog would do if he caught one. Try to talk to it, most likely. He talked to everything else.
They came to the place just below field twenty-six where Mr. Campbell had said the ferrel was creeping in. Zackie sharpened his machete by pressing the point of the blade against a tree and rubbing his file over its upturned edge a few times. Peter noticed the file had a handle different from the one on Mr. Campbell's. Both were of wood, but they were not the same shape. He asked about it.
"Them don't come with handles," Zackie explained. "You have to make you own, so you make the kind you like best." He tested the machete blade with his thumb, and then went to work on the ferrel.
After watching him awhile, Peter followed suit.
It was harder than it looked, Peter soon discovered. He had to grasp a clump of waist-high ferrel with his left hand and bend it over, then swing the machete so as to chop it off close to the ground. That meant he had to hold the machete so the blade was almost horizontal and only just above the ground when it hit home. And that meant he had to bend way over from the hips while swinging it, which made his back ache. And in no time at all, the spines on the ferrel made his left hand sore.
He kept at it, though, until Zackie stopped work and said, "Mek we stop for a while, Peter. It don't always being careless that make you have an accident. Sometimes it only from being tired."
While they were resting, Peter remembered what he had overheard the day before, when Zackie talked with Miss Lorrie. Should he mention it? Yes, he decided. In fact, he just about had to if he wanted to help.
"Hey,"
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