"Too much talk, too little work.

Savvee ?" Gogoomy made no reply, but, apparently shifting weight, he slid one foot forward.

The other boys, spread fan-wise about her, were also sliding forward, the cruel cane-knives in their hands advertising their intention.
"You cut 'm grass!" she commanded imperatively.
But Gogoomy slid his other foot forward.

She measured the distance with her eye.

It would be impossible to whirl her horse around and get away.
She would be chopped down from behind.
And in that tense moment the faces of all of them were imprinted on her mind in an unforgettable picture--one of them, an old man, with torn and distended ear-lobes that fell to his chest; another, with the broad flattened nose of Africa, and with withered eyes so buried under frowning brows that nothing but the sickly, yellowish-looking whites could be seen; a third, thick-lipped and bearded with kinky whiskers; and Gogoomy--she had never realized before how handsome Gogoomy was in his mutinous and obstinate wild-animal way.