THE hay in Farmer Old’s biggest field had been duly mown and tossed, and
his whole staff were now employed in carrying it. But the day was
intensely hot, with a brooding sultriness which seemed to betoken a
coming storm. Dust lay thick upon the hedges, and the ground was iron
hard; rain was badly needed, no doubt, but Farmer Old devoutly hoped it
would hold off just a little longer until the crop was saved. He was a
wonderfully energetic man, was Farmer Old, and spared himself as little
as those who worked under him. All the long, glowing hours of that
languorous day he had toiled as manfully as any of his labourers; but
now, at length, he had left them to their own devices for a short time,
and the men breathed more freely in consequence. The rattle of the
hay-rake ceased as the driver, having reached the corner of the field,
paused to wipe his brow before turning the horses. A little knot of men,
deputed by the farmer to ensure against any possible waste by following
in its wake with the humble wooden implements in vogue before its
invention, insensibly drew nearer together. One of their number
expressed the natural longing for a drop of beer, and another
incautiously provoked envious feelings by announcing that at Farmer
Inkpen’s the men had as much beer allowed them as they could drink at
busy times.
“He do send it out to ’em reg’lar,” said Martin Fry. “Ees, my brother
James, what works for Farmer Inkpen, do say that they do be carr’in’ the
jugs back’ards and forrards fro’ the house to the field so reg’lar as if
’twas but the family theirselves what was working. There, it do make I
dry wi’ naught but thinkin’ on it.”
Jess Domeny looked up from the long roller of hay which he had just raked
together, and surveyed his comrade vengefully.
“An’ it mid well make ye feel dry, Martin!” he cried emphatically. “It
mid well make ye feel dry. Sich a day as this be, an’ us a-workin’ so
many hours at a stretch.”
Jim Stuckey, perched aloft on the seat of the hay-rake, drew the back of
his hand across his lips, and remarked that it was the drouthiest weather
he’d a-knowed since he was a lad, an’ he’d see’d a good few hot summers
too.
“I wish,” resumed Martin, voicing the sentiments of the party, “our
measter was so thoughtful for his fellow-creeturs as Farmer Inkpen do be,
accordin’ to my brother James, but I truly believe a man’s tongue mid
drop out of’s head wi’ drith afore he’d take a bit o’ notice.”
“Measter b’ain’t mich of a drinker hisself,” hazarded a lover of fair
play, “or else I d’ ’low he’d have a bit more feelin’ for sich as we
together.”
“He did ought to ha’ feelin’,” cried Jess, vehemently. “A man same as
Measter what be makin’ sich a sight o’ money, takin’ prizes for carn an’
layin’ by the dibs so fast he can scarce count ’em, did ought to have a
bit o’ mercy on them what do have to earn their bread by the sweat o’
their brow.”
“Measter do sweat too,” put in an impartial bystander mildly. “He do
sweat like anything, Jess. I’ve a-see’d the big draps a-standin’ on’s
face.”
“What I d’ say is,” continued Jess, after pausing to glare at the last
speaker, “a man i’ Measter’s place what be set up over his feller-men by
the hand o’ Providence, did ought to act providential-like. When the
weather be that mortial hot a man gets thirsty sittin’ in a chair, them
what’s set over him did ought to see as he had a drap or two to m’isten
his tongue wi’.”
There was a murmur of approval, and then the men prepared to continue
their labours. But Jess stayed them by an admonitory gesture.
“If ye wasn’t all sich a poor-spirited lot we wouldn’t be put upon the
way we be now,” he remarked. “There’s no way o’ bringin’ measters to
reason if men won’t stick up for theirselves.”
“Stick up for theirselves,” echoed Jim, with a startled look.
Jeffs transferred his wooden rake from his right hand to his left, and,
fumbling in the pocket of his corduroys, produced a small greasy slab of
newspaper.
“Did ye chance to notice what the cab-drivers in London done when they
wanted their wages rose” he asked. “They went on strike—there, ye can
read it for yourselves.”
Martin Fry stretched out his hand for the paper, and slowly spelt out the
paragraph designated by Jess’s horny finger; then he returned the grimy
sheet to its owner, with a shake of the head and a pursed lip.
“I was readin’ a while back,” continued Jess, without heeding these signs
of disapproval, “how some colliery chaps what was wantin’ shorter hours
got their way—they did go on strike too. The measters had to give in.
Well, why shouldn’t us go on strike for a drop o’ beer at haymakin’
time?”
The others looked at each other and then at Jess, who, with his battered
chip hat pushed back upon his stubbly grizzled head, returned their gaze
defiantly.
“I’d start it soon enough,” he observed, “if I could get the rest o’ ye
to back me up; but ye haven’t got no more spirit nor a pack o’ mice.”
At this moment the farmer’s stentorian voice hailed them from the gate.
“Now then, now then, what be doin’ over there?”
The gate creaked violently on its hinges, and swung to with a re-echoing
bang behind the master, whose long legs carried him towards the idlers at
a prodigious pace, while, as he strode along, he kept up a flow of
sarcastic admonitions.
“I d’ ’low you folks do seem to think ’tis safe to let the grass grow
under your feet these times, but I tell ye I do want to save this crop
afore thinkin’ about another. . . . Jim Stuckey, I hope ye be restin’
yerself so well as the harses. Well, Jess, ye be awaitin’ for the rain
to fall, I d’ ’low.”
He had reached the group by this time; Jim was already almost out of
earshot, the rattle of his machine drowning the last words. But Jess
heard them. His comrades had already resumed their labours, but he
remained standing still, leaning upon his rake, and surveying his master
with a lowering gaze.
“Don’t hurry yourself, Jess,” observed Farmer Old, with a sneer.
He was a tall man, but spare of figure, with long wiry limbs, and a face
burnt mahogany-colour and fringed by a grey beard; his small black eyes
were as expressionless as sloes, but there were certain humourous lines
about his mouth.
“Talkin’ o’ rain,” observed Jess sternly, “a man mid very well wish for
it these times; a drap or two mid m’isten his tongue.”
Mr Old was so staggered by this remark, which, under the actual
conditions, appeared to him almost blasphemous, that he found himself for
the moment unable to reply.
“Some folks,” resumed Jess, “as we was a-sayin’ just now—”
“Speak for yerself,” growled Martin, uneasy under the gaze of his
master’s sloe-black eyes.
“Well, an’ I will sp’ake for myself, an’ I’ll sp’ake out,” cried Jess
with spirit. “I say, Measter, a man wi’ a heart in his body ’ud take a
bit o’ thought for his men, an’ ’ud not let ’em go wantin’ a drap o’ beer
on such a day as this.”
“A drap o’ beer!” ejaculated Old with a relieved laugh. “That’s what be
the matter, be it. I d’ ’low, Jess, ye’ve a-had a drap too much
a’ready.”
“I’ll take my oath I haven’t!” exclaimed Jess, much incensed at this
undeserved accusation; indeed the mere suggestion appeared to intensify
the longing which he was supposed to have partially gratified. “I
haven’t a-had a glass to-day, Measter, nor likely to, seein’ it’s Friday,
and my wold woman she do never allow I a penny at the back-end o’ the
week.”
“’Tis because you do get through your ’lowance at the beginning,”
returned the farmer, preparing to move on.
“Nay, now, bide a bit, sir—I’m dalled if I don’t sp’ake out as I said I
would. There’s Measter Inkpen, what haven’t a-got so big a farm as
you’ve a-got, an’ what b’ain’t a-layin’ by so mich money—well, when his
men be a-workin’ so hard as what we be a-doin’ to-day, he do send ’em out
some beer to the field. Martin Fry was a-tellin’ us about it—wasn’t ye,
Martin?”
“Well,” said Martin uneasily, “I did hear some sich talk fro’ my brother
James what works up to Inkpen’s, and I mid ha’ mentioned it, but I don’t
want no argyment about it.”
“No need to have no argyments,” returned the farmer blandly. “Measter
Inkpen have a-got his notions, an’ I’ve a-got mine. An’ I’ll tell ye
straight out, my bwoys, I’ve got no notion o’ sendin’ out beer to folks
what be a-earnin’ good wage an’ can buy for theirselves so much as is
good for ’em. A man’s better wi’out it to my mind.”
“If that be your notion, Measter, I’m sorry for ye,” shouted Jess, whom
the last remark had incensed beyond bounds of caution. “There, ’tis
treatin’ your human fellow-creeturs worse nor the beasts of the field.
Look at them cows yonder—ye’d never think o’ lettin’ them go dry. Wasn’t
we standin’ up to our knees in muck last spring a-cleanin’ the pond for
’em. There’s one a-standin’ in it now a-drinkin’, an’ a-coolin’ his
legs. I d’ ’low ’tis enough to make a body envy the dumb brutes.”
Farmer Old fixed him with his expressionless gaze.
“Well, Jess,” he returned, with a provoking mildness which added fuel to
Jess’s wrath. “I b’ain’t a onreasonable man, I hope. I have no
objection at all to your goin’ an’ standin’ in the pond to cool your legs
and refresh yourself. ’Ees, I’ll allow ye five minutes.”
The men’s laughter rang out loudly at this sally; the distant rattle of
the hay-rake ceased for a moment as Stuckey drew rein, and turned in his
seat in the hope of ascertaining the nature of the joke. But Jess threw
his rake from him, and turned upon his master with anger tempered by
dignity.
“Then I’ll tell ye what it is, sir,” he cried. “Flesh and blood can’t
bear it no longer. I be a-goin’ on strike.”
Mr Old surveyed him for a moment; then he glanced at Jess’s
fellow-workers, just the fraction of a gleam being perceptible in his
inscrutable eyes. But Martin and his companions raked away as if their
lives depended on the speed with which they accomplished their task.
“Oh, ye be goin’ on strike, be ye?” he observed. “Goin’ to strike all by
yourself seemingly.”
Again he glanced at the gang of rakers, whose efforts became if possible
more strenuous than before, and who appeared quite unconscious of what
was going on; then he set his legs a little more wide apart and whistled.
“Ye want a rise of wages, I suppose?” he continued calmly.
Jess considered, and then threw out his hand impressively. There was a
certain appearance of tension about the bent backs of the workers. It
would be a queer thing if, after all, the master were going to give in to
Jess.
“No, Measter,” said the latter with a virtuous air. “Ye rose me last
year an’ I b’ain’t the man to ax for more now; but a drap o’ beer’s
another thing. I be goin’ on strike, Measter Old, till you agree for to
send us out a drap o’ refreshment at such times as these.”
“I’m glad ye didn’t ax for more wage, Jess,” returned Old, still mildly,
“because ye wouldn’t ha’ got it. As for sendin’ out refreshment, as I
did tell ye jist now, I’ve got no notion o’ doin’ no sich thing.”
“Well, Measter,” responded Jess, “I’m sorry for to disapp’int ye but I’ll
ha’ to knock off work till ye give in.”
“Jist oblige me by handin’ me that there rake,” said the farmer.
“There’s a couple o’ teeth gone—I’ll have to fine ye three-pence for
that. Ye shouldn’t throw my property about that way. I can pay ye the
rest o’ your wage now if ye like. To-morrow comes off, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Jess, staring a little blankly however. He did not
expect that Mr Old would accept his resignation with so much promptness
and such evident placidity.
The farmer now produced a greasy leather purse and counted out the sum of
twelve shillings and nine pence.
He doled out the last-named fraction in pennies, and as each chinked upon
his palm Jess’s countenance fell more and more.
“I don’t know but what I’ve let ye have a bit over,” observed Mr Old,
with a dubious look. “’Tis a bit ar’kard to make a calculation all in a
minute like this. But there, you’ve worked for me nigh upon ten year
now; I’ll not be too close wi’ ye.”
Jess pocketed the coins and shambled away without speaking. After twenty
paces or so, however, he turned. Nobody was looking after him; his late
master was now plying his own discarded rake; his former comrades were
working with the same fury of zeal which had seized them from the instant
of Mr Old’s appearance. At the sight, Jess’s long-gathering fury broke
forth.
“So that’s how you treat I!” he exclaimed. “Me, what’s worked for ’ee
ten year. You do pack me off wi’out a word. Ees, n’arn o’ ’ee has so
much as a word to throw at I, what’s done my best an’ worked along o’ ye
these years and years.”
Martin Fry glanced up with a stricken look, but apparently found nothing
to say; somebody did murmur inarticulately that he was sure he wished
Jess well, an’ couldn’t say no more nor that, but none of the others
could be said to respond to his appeal. Farmer Old gazed at him with
apparent amazement.
“Ye be a-plaisin’ of yerself, b’ain’t ye?” he enquired. “Ye be a-goin’
on strike to plaise yerself?” Jess rallied his pride.
“In course I be, but I be a-goin’ on strike along o’ bein’ treated so
bad.”
“Well, ye’ll not ha’ no more bad treatment to complain on now,” returned
Old. “Ye be a-plaisin’ o’ yerself, as I do say. I do like folks to
plaise theirselves.”
Jess walked away.
Considering the strain of the recent struggle, the uncommon heat of the
day, the abnormal thirst from which he was suffering, and the fact that
he would shortly be called upon to face his wold ’ooman, it is not
surprising that he should have turned into the “Three Choughs” before
proceeding on his homeward way. At the last-named hostelry he recovered
some portion of the valour which had possessed him in the field, and
which had been damped by the attitude of the farmer and his men, and
indeed felt himself to be a hero. Ten minutes’ conversation with the
missus, however, sufficed to disabuse him of this idea, and he went to
bed in a puzzled and chastened frame of mind. Mrs Domeny had impounded
the remainder of his already curtailed wage. She had also asked certain
questions which Jess found it difficult to answer, such as who did he
suppose would give him work now? what would become of her and the
children? how were they to meet the rent if he were to be long out of
work? each query being coupled with the persistent refrain, wasn’t he
ashamed of himself?
With the dawn, however, fresh courage came. He had done what was only
right in the interests of himself and of his colleagues, and must surely
triumph in the end.
The threatened thunderstorm had blown over, but nevertheless it was a
busy and critical time for farmers. Mr Old would no doubt be glad enough
to come to terms now, that he, too, had had a night to sleep on the
matter. They would be cutting the Twenty Acre to-day—the grass was
almost over ripe and there was Sunday coming—Mr Old might possibly invite
Jess to come back, and might even render the reconciliation more enduring
by making the required concession.
“What’s a drap o’ beer to sich as he?” murmured Jess, as he hastily
donned his garments; he himself knew how much it meant to him. If Farmer
Old did not come round there would be no beer for Jess for a considerable
time.
He arrived at the Twenty Acre a little before the usual time of starting
work, but found to his surprise that the two mowing-machines had already
begun operations. Farmer Old himself was driving the one which usually
fell to Jess’s share. Jess stood leaning across the gate with a pleasant
smile on his face until the last-named machine drew near him.
“Marnin’, sir,” he remarked, hailing the farmer in a genial tone. “You
do seem to be early at work.”
“We be a bit shart-handed, ye see,” responded Mr Old, with a grin which
displayed his remaining teeth.
This was the opportunity Jess had hoped for; he grinned back expectantly.
“It do seem a shame to see ye sittin’ up there, Farmer. It must be a
good few year since you drove a mower.”
“Ees,” agreed Mr Old. “’Tis a good few year now. ’Tis a nice change.”
He flicked at the off horse’s ear as he spoke, and the machine went
rattling up the field again.
Jess waited till it turned, and then marched round the gate with a
determined air, taking off his coat as he advanced, and setting his hat
firmly on his head.
“Come, sir,” he cried, laying his hand on the reins. “This here job be
altogether too much for ye. You get down, an’ let me pop up in your
place. I can’t bide to see ye a-makin’ a slave o’ yoursel’ same as
that.”
“Thank ’ee, Jess, thank ’ee,” responded the farmer, clambering down with
great alacrity. “Ees, I’ll not deny I’m gettin’ a bit stiff for this
here work. I reckon it ’ud ha’ tried me a bit.”
“I can’t forget as I did work for ye for ten year,” observed Jess, eyeing
him sharply; he felt it would be the proper thing now for the other to
own he was in fault on the previous day. But Mr Old appeared to have no
such intention. He handed over the reins with a beaming face, and
watched Jess take his vacated seat with evident satisfaction.
“I do call it real handsome of ye to lend a hand same as ye be a-doin’,”
he said, “Real handsome, but no one do know better nor you that these be
busy times.”
Jess’s countenance assumed a dubious, not to say depressed, expression,
as he set the mowing-machine in motion; what did the master mean? Surely
he could not think Jess such a fool as to lend a hand out of mere
neighbourliness? His doubts increased when at dinner-time the farmer
renewed his expressions of gratitude; something very like a twinkle
appearing the while in his habitually expressionless eyes.
“I’ll not expect ye to come back this afternoon,” he observed. “Ye’ll
have lots o’ little jobs to do at home. Nay now, a favour’s a favour,
an’ I’d never be one for to ax too much.”
Jess stared hard, scratching his jaw, and the other resumed.
“I’ve a-heerd o’ folks going on strike before, but I will say I did never
hear of a man what acted so goodnatured. There, most strikers do look on
the masters as they’ve a-left, as regular enemies. ’Tisn’t many as ’ud
offer to do a good turn on a busy day same as you be a-doin’. Your
missus did ought to allow ye a glass o’ beer to-day,” continued the
farmer handsomely. “I’m sure ye do deserve it.”
“Well, I’m dalled,” growled Jess, under his breath, however, for he had
sufficient self-respect to accept the situation. He walked away with as
jaunty an air as he could assume, and the farmer stood watching him for a
moment or two, shaking with silent laughter.
Jess passed a very dismal Sunday. His friends looked at him askance, for
his conduct had occasioned much talk, and he was regarded in that little
community in the light of a dangerous firebrand. His missus lost no
opportunity of impressing upon him her views of his recent action; Farmer
Old passed him with a smile which he could not but think savoured of
malicious triumph, and Martin Fry, whom he chanced to encounter on his
way from church, delivered it as his opinion that he had made a sammy of
himself.
The very indignation provoked by this remark, which, as he thought, came
ill from the man whose incautious speech had first evoked in his hearers
a sense of personal ill-usage, suggested to Jess a new plan of action.
Why not offer his services to Mr Inkpen, who would know so well how to
reward them? He could not but feel gratified at the thought that it was
in vaunting his generosity, and in endeavouring to force Old to follow
his example, that Jess had lost his place.
He strolled round to Inkpen’s premises at a convenient hour of the
evening, when he would be likely to find the master disengaged. Fortune
seemed to favour him: Mr Inkpen, very much at ease in snowy Sabbath shirt
sleeves, was leaning across his gate, smoking a ruminative pipe.
“Fine evenin’, sir,” began Jess.
The farmer nodded a trifle sourly.
“Ye haven’t a-got all your hay in yet, I see,” proceeded Domeny.
Mr Inkpen removed his pipe from his mouth.
“I’d like to know what business it be o’ yours whether I’ve a-got it in,
or whether I haven’t?” he returned, with what seemed to Jess uncalled-for
asperity.
“No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter.
“You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the
farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men
beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.”
“No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a
sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations.
“Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’
for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’
don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he
don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’
you to go a-puttin’ your word in.”
“’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit
too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured
you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example
and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—”
“Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping
the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself,
whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’
arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more
of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’
arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.”
“Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.”
Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
“On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any
master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap
as you among my folk for a hundred pound.”
“If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny,
endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity.
“’Tis what I think,” retorted the other. “I think you be a fool—a
mischievous fool, an’ I’m sorry for your wife an’ family.”
Jess betook himself home again in a very low-spirited condition indeed.
Would all the masters think the same—would everyone look on him as a
mischievous fool, and if so, what would become of the wold ’ooman and the
children?
His presentiments were but too well justified. Nobody was anxious to
employ a revolutionary who might at any moment foster discontent and
promote disorder among his peaceful fellow-workers, or harass his
employer with unreasonable demands.
Two or three days passed by, and Jess began to feel seriously uneasy; the
long hours of enforced idleness wearied him and weighed upon his spirits.
It seemed so strange to feel that there was no need to get up early, and
no work waiting for him to do: His missus, indeed, provided him with a
good many odd jobs which occupied him at first, but on one particular
morning he found himself absolutely at a loss.
Mrs Domeny was elbow-deep in suds; the children had all gone to school;
he had finished weeding the garden, and cleaning the hen-house, and
chopping the sticks; positively nothing remained for him to do. There
was no use proceeding towards the “Three Choughs,” for his pockets were
empty, and the landlord had long ago refused to allow him credit. He
sauntered down the little flagged path and leaned over his own paintless
garden-gate. Old Bright, who was crippled with rheumatism, was leaning
over his, a little lower down the row; Mrs Stuckey’s two youngest
children were making dust pies near their own gateway. Domeny’s eyes
wandered from one to the other; no one was at home at this busiest time
of the busy day, except the women at their washtubs, the old folks, and
the babies; and here was he, Jess Domeny, standing idle.
The air was full of the scent of newly-cut hay, there was a ceaseless
rumble of distant waggons bumping in and out of the fields; he could even
hear the clanking of harness and the distant voices of the men. Every
hand was wanted on such a day as this, but Jess’s hands hung limply over
the gate.
By and by he passed through, and sauntered in an apparently purposeless
manner up to Old’s farm, It was a comfortable house, conspicuous at
present for the bright yellow of its new thatch and the glowing masses of
crimson phlox now in full flower. On his way thither he passed the field
where hay-making was still in full swing; Mr Old himself was plying a
rake. He looked up as Jess paused uncertainly on the other side of the
hedge.
“Ye be hard at it still, I see, sir,” hazarded Jess.
“Ees, hard at it,” responded the farmer, cheerfully.
“’Tis to be ’oped as you wont upset yourself,” said Jess hesitatingly; he
was anxious to ingratiate himself, but had no desire to bestow a further
mead of service gratis.
“I d’ ’low it do do I good,” returned Old. “There, a man do never know
how much he can do till he tries. I’stead o’ findin’ myself a man shart,
I’m reg’lar vexed to think how long I’ve a-kept a man too many.”
Jess echoed his laugh in a half-hearted way, and then, finding Mr Old’s
jocular humour a trifle trying, strolled on towards the farmhouse proper.
Here all was cheerful bustle. Jenny Old was hanging out a basketful of
linen on the clothes-line which reached from the corner of the house to
the gnarled apple-tree; Polly, who was not so strong as her sister, was
sitting in the sunshine with a pile of garments in need of mending; young
Bill Hopkins was staggering across the yard carrying a huge bucket of
pig-wash. At the sight Jess’s interest quickened, and at the same time
he was conscious of a spasm of active jealousy. It had been his office
to attend to the pigs, and he had ever taken pride and pleasure in every
detail connected with his charges, from the moment when they first ran
squeaking about the yard till they became bacon.
“Be the new litter come yet?” he enquired in as casual a tone as he could
assume.
“Lard, yes! Never see’d a finer lot—eleven they be wi’out countin’ the
littlest what did die last night. But ’twarn’t worth rearing anyway.”
“I’d ha’ reared it though,” said Jess. “What be bringin’ the sow?”
“Oh, he be gettin’ on nicely. He’ll do all right on the usual stuff.”
“He did ought to have a meal drink,” said Jess firmly.
“Haw, haw! You be terr’ble free wi’ your drinks!” said Bill, slyly.
Polly Old tittered at the sally, and Jenny, catching the sound of mirth,
uplifted her shrill voice to enquire the cause. Bill repeated the joke
with a guffaw so loud that it brought out Mrs Old from the house, with
soapy hands and an enquiring face. She too laughed on hearing of Bill’s
jest.
“Ah, ye may all laugh,” cried Jess passionately. “But it b’ain’t no
laughin’ matter to I. Ye think ye may cheek me now, Bill Hopkins,
because I be down in the world, but I tell ’ee, Mrs Old, if I did sp’ake
a word about the sow ’tis because I—I—well there! I don’t like to see
the poor beast punished for want o’ proper care.”
Mrs Old stopped laughing.
“Ye was always a careful man, an’ very knowledgeable about pigs,” she
observed, thoughtfully.
Jess, encouraged by these words of commendation, proceeded to lay down
certain rules of diet appropriate to lady pigs, and Mrs Old listened in
silence, nodding now and then.
At the conclusion of his harangue she ordered Bill sharply to go back for
the barley-meal, and desired her daughters to give over gigglin’ and
glenin’ and get on wi’ their work; then, meditatively wiping her hands on
her apron, she strolled towards Domeny.
“’Tis a pity, Jess, ye don’t have so much sense for yourself as ye do
have for the dumb beasts. B’ain’t ye tired o’ bein’ on strike?”
Jess looked round him cautiously, and then back at her shrewd, kindly
face.
“Well, mum,” he said, with the faintest dawning of a sheepish grin upon
his face, “I won’t say but what—well, I don’t know.”
“I’ve been a-talkin’ for your missus,” continued Mrs Old.
“Oh, and have ye, ma’am?” said Jess doubtfully.
“Ees,” said Mrs Collins. “I d’ ’low _she’s_ tired of it poor soul, if
you b’ain’t.”
“Well, ma’am,” said Jess, “it do seem as if I’d ha’ done better to ha’
left measter alone.”
“It do look like it,” agreed Mrs Old, with twinkling eyes.
She paused, polishing the top of the gate with a fore-finger crinkled
from its recent immersion in the suds. “Maybe if ye was to say summat o’
the kind to he, he mid overlook it.”
For a moment Jess’s pride struggled with his secret longing; then the
pride broke down.
“I wonder would ye sp’ake to en for me, mum?” he hinted.
“No, no. Best say whatever ye do have to say yourself,” returned Mrs Old
hastily. “So like as not he’d tell me to mind my own business. He
b’ain’t one as likes a ’ooman’s interference.”
“Well,” faltered Jess, after another interval of inward struggle, “I’ll
foller your advice, mum.”
“Mind,” cried Mrs Old, as he was turning away, “I don’t say for certain
as he’ll take ye back. He was a-sayin’ t’other day as he’d done the
right thing to make a example of ye.”
Jess stared at her blankly and then went slowly back to the field, more
deeply depressed than he had yet been, since the fatal day when he had
asserted himself. Mrs Old’s words were ominous indeed: Jess had desired
to be a leader among his fellows, to be imitated and admired; not to be
set up as it were in a kind of moral pillory. He stood long looking over
the hedge at the labours of the farmer and his men. At last Mr Old,
attracted by his gaze, came towards him.
“Want to take a hand again, Jess?”
“Nay, sir—leastways—I can’t afford to take a hand for nothin’. ’Tisn’t
in rayson. But—”
He broke off, quailing beneath the farmer’s gaze, now mildly enquiring.
“The missus—my wold ’ooman, be terr’ble upset,” he went on, “and there’s
rent-day to think on, and—’tis a bad job for I to be out o’ work jist
now, measter.”
“’Tis a pity ye didn’t think o’ that afore,” said Mr Old. “I d’ ’low
ye’ll be a bit wiser in your next place.”
“I don’t know when I’ll have another place, sir,” said Jess, babyish
tears springing to his eyes. “There, I can’t get nobody to take I
on—’tis a terr’ble bad look-out for I.”
“’Tis, ’tis indeed,” agreed the other heartily.
“I were thinkin’, Measter Old, maybe ye’d overlook the past, an’ take I
back. Ye wouldn’t ha’ no fault to find wi’ I again. I’d serve ye so
faithful as ever I did, an’ I’d—I’d never say nothin’, nor ax for
nothin’.”
He stopped with a kind of gasp. Old turned his rake upside down and
thoughtfully investigated a splintered tooth.
“Well, ’tis this way, ye see,” he said, after a moment’s meditation. “I
did say I were a-goin’ to make an example o’ you. I did say it to myself
an’ I did say it to the men; an’ I b’ain’t a man what likes to go back on
his word.”
Jess looked at him piteously, his round ruddy face almost convulsed with
anxiety. Farmer Old, who was a good-natured man, could not withstand its
pathetic appeal.
“Well, I’ll tell ye what I’ll do,” he cried; “there’s one way I mid take
ye back wi’out breakin’ my word. I said I’d make an example of ’ee, an’
dalled if I don’t do it. There, I’ll take ye back at same wage as before
if ye’ll turn teetotal.”
If Jess’s expression had been pathetic before, it was downright tragic
now; he stood silent, with goggling eyes and a dropping jaw.
“Ye see,” resumed the farmer confidentially, “’twas the beer—or the wish
for it what did bring all this trouble upon ye. If ye pledge yourself to
drink no beer ye can’t wish for it.”
Jess however was dubious on this point.
“’Twill be sich a disgrace,” he stammered presently.
“Disgrace!” repeated the farmer. “Nothin’ o’ the kind! Ye’ll be an
example to the men, I tell ’ee—they’ll be all a-lookin’ up to ’ee, an’
a-praisin’ ’ee.”
Jess’s countenance cleared in some slight measure; he took the rake which
his master proffered him, in silence, and forthwith fell to work with
great vigour and goodwill.
Jim Stuckey, jingling past with the hay-rake, halted beside him.
“Be come to help again?” he asked, with a grin. Domeny looked back at
him solemnly.
“I b’ain’t on strike no more,” he observed. “I’ve a-come to my senses
again, an’ I’ve a-come back to work. I be come,” he added, straightening
his back, and raising his voice for the benefit of the others; “I be come
to set ye all an example. I be a-goin’, Jim, for to give up drink
altogether. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal.”
“Well, to be sure,” cried Jim, much impressed.
“Ees,” resumed Jess, after a moment’s pause, during which he had searched
his memory for an appropriate text, which he now produced in a somewhat
jumbled condition. “I have found out my sin an’ I be a-goin’ for to
forsake it. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal out an’ out.”
* * *
No one was more rejoiced to hear of this doughty resolution than Mrs
Domeny; though from certain heated altercations which sometimes took
place on Saturday nights between the couple, it might be inferred that in
spite of his pledge the good fellow was still troubled by certain
rebellious hankerings. It was even whispered that now and then—on
market-days for instance—Jess’s gait was wont to become unsteady and his
speech a trifle thick, almost as of yore; but Farmer Old never appeared
to notice these lapses from the path of rectitude, and Jess lost no
measure of the respect with which he had inspired his fellow-labourers
since he had first proposed to set them an example.
“JARGE’S LITTLE ’OOMAN”
IT was eight o’clock on a summer’s morning, and Farmer Ellery’s haymakers
had duly assembled in his yard preparatory to setting forth for the
field.
The long spell of fine weather appeared likely to break up at last, and
if the hay in the forty-acre was to be carried that day, every hand was
needed.
The farmer, mounted on his stout black horse, kept a sharp look-out as
the folk came up, and those who were disposed to lag and to gossip
quickened their pace as they took note of his expression. Several things
had happened to put the master out of temper. One of the horses had
suddenly gone lame, a wheel had come off the biggest waggon, and what was
most provoking of all, though every pair of hands was wanted, as has been
said, every pair of hands was not forthcoming.
Old John Robbins was down with his rheumatism again—and where was George
Crumpler?
“Where’s George Crumpler?” Farmer Ellery enquired aloud, taking a rapid
and frowning survey of the groups who had surrounded horses and waggons.
“Be Jarge Crumpler here?” echoed an officious voice.
And then the answer came, first from one side and then the other, “I
han’t seen nothin’ o’ Jarge this marnin’;” and “He bain’t here, sir—I d’
’low he bain’t.”
The farmer tightened his reins with an ominous look.
“He’s been at his tricks again, I suppose?”
While he was yet speaking a figure turned in at the gate and made its way
quickly up to the “maister”; the figure of a short, thick-set woman in a
print dress and sunbonnet. Drawing near, she uplifted a round, sunburnt
face, and laid her hand tremulously upon the farmer’s rein.
“Please ye, sir, I’m sorry to say my ’usband bain’t so very well this
marnin’.”
“Oh, isn’t he?” retorted Ellery, with a short, angry laugh. “He’s been
taking something that hasn’t agreed with him, I suppose; it’s happened
once or twice before.”
“He’ve had a fall,” the little woman nervously stammered.
“A fall, yes—it’s not the first time either. Cut his head open as usual,
I suppose?”
The bystanders looked at each other, and a smothered “Haw, haw!” sounded
here and there.
“He fell into a ditch once,” resumed Mr Ellery, with stern sarcasm. “Was
it a ditch this time, or did he chance to knock himself against a wall?”
“He tripped over a log of wood,” returned Mrs Crumpler, diffidently; and
the laughter of the bystanders began afresh.
“Here, you folks,” shouted the farmer, raising himself in his stirrups,
“what are you all idling about for? Because one man’s an idle,
good-for-nothing chap, are you _all_ to lose your time? I’m going to
make an example of George Crumpler, and I’ll make an example of everyone
what thinks he can play the fool and treat me this way. Stand out of my
way, Mrs Crumpler—you know very well, and George knows very well, what he
has to expect. I told him plain the last time he went drinking that if
ever I lost another day’s work through him I’d send him packing. So he
needn’t trouble himself to come here again. Let go of my rein.”
But Mrs Crumpler clutched it fast.
“Please ye, sir,” she said firmly, “there’s no occasion for ye to be at
the loss of a day’s work along o’ Crumpler bein’ laid-up—I be come to
take his place.”
“What,” cried Ellery, “you!”
“E-es, sir,” rejoined Mrs Crumpler with a kind of modest assurance. “I
can work just so well as he. There’s nothin’ what he do do as I can’t do
if ye’ll let me try.”
“Can ye drive a hayrake, then?” cried the farmer, with a laugh that was
half-fierce and half-amused.
“Not a hayrake, no, sir,” rejoined the little woman after a moment’s
reflection; “I shouldn’t like for to undertake a hayrake—but a cart or a
waggon—I d’ ’low I could drive either o’ them just so well as anybody.
And I could use a hand-rake, or I could toss up hay wi’ a pitchfork.”
“Yes, you’ve got such fine long arms, haven’t you?” rejoined Ellery,
eyeing her diminutive proportions.
But Mrs Crumpler was not discouraged: “They mid be shart, sir, but they
be terr’ble strong,” she returned; “feel o’ them.”
The farmer laughed again, but this time more good-naturedly.
“If you was to give me a trial, sir, I think you’d be satisfied,” pleaded
Mrs Crumpler.
“Oh, you can try as much as you like,” returned the master, twitching the
rein from her hand, and eyeing her with a smile that was not unkindly.
“I don’t suppose you’ll make much hand of it, but you’re welcome to try.”
“Thank ’ee, sir,” she responded, fervently. “What be I to do then,
please, sir?”
“Why, we’ll try what your arms are made of, since you’re so proud of ’em.
You’ll find a pitchfork in that shed yonder. Be sprack and get it, and
follow the rest o’ the folks up along.”
He chuckled as he watched her cross the yard and dive into the shed,
reappearing in a twinkling with a pitchfork as tall as herself. Having
seen her shoulder this and hasten away with it, he put his horse to a
trot, and presently forgot all about Mrs Crumpler in attending to more
weighty matters.
The little woman’s appearance in the field was greeted with a shout of
laughter; but, nothing daunted, she made her way to the nearest waggon.
“I be come to lend a hand,” she declared; “I be come to take Jarge’s
place.”
The announcement was treated as a good joke; old Joe Weatherby grinned
down at her from the waggon, while Bill Frost paused with an immense
bundle of hay poised on his fork.
“It bain’t much of a hand what you’ll be lendin’, Sally; I d’ ’low your
arms won’t reach much further nor a child’s.”
“You’ll soon see that,” returned Sally valiantly; then, smiling up at
Joe, she continued, “I d’ ’low a woman bain’t fit for much if she can’t
take her husband’s place now an’ again when he be laid by the heels.
How’s that to start wi’?”
She drove the prongs of her fork into the nearest haycock, and adroitly
tossed a goodly truss to Joe, who proceeded to spread and trample it
after the recognised fashion. “Now then, here’s another.”
Sally’s fork went backwards and forwards with so much speed and energy
that Joe presently pleaded for mercy, announcing that she was ready for
him before he could get ready for she.
But Bill laughed sardonically. “It be all very well now the wain be near
empty. Bide a bit till the load do begin to grow.”
As the hay mounted higher and higher, indeed, in response to the combined
efforts of himself and Mrs Crumpler, the poor little creature found the
work more difficult to accomplish. She made strenuous efforts, holding
her pitchfork at its extreme end, tossing the hay with all her strength,
even jumping occasionally; but over and over again the truss tumbled down
from her fork before she could cast it into its allotted place.
“I d’ ’low ye’ll have to give in,” said Joe, gazing down at her from his
eminence.
“I ’on’t then!” said Sally; and then she burst into tears. “I can’t!”
she explained between her sobs. “If I can’t do Jarge’s work the maister
’ull turn en off. He said so. Here, I’ll try again.”
“Nay now, nay now,” said Joe, “ye mid have the best ’eart in the world
yet yer arms midden’t be no longer. Tell ’ee what—ye can be rakin’ the
stuff together, while me and Bill do finish this lot, an’ when we do
bring the waggon back ye can take my place on it.”
Sally dropped the apron with which she had been wiping her eyes, and
thanked him gratefully; then, exchanging her fork for a wooden rake, she
turned energetically to her new task.
By-and-by the waggon went creaking out of the field, and presently
returned empty, whereupon Mrs Crumpler proudly clambered up on it. Her
goodwill and energy were certainly unfailing; nevertheless, she presently
discovered that something more was required for the successful loading of
a waggon. It was very difficult to spread the hay evenly, and, trample
as she might, she could not get it to lie as firmly as when Joe was in
possession.
When Farmer Ellery rode round, he paused for quite a long while watching
her operations, and though Sally worked feverishly hard, and feigned to
take no notice of him, her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely
breathe, and when he presently called her by name, she gave such a start
that she dropped her pitchfork.
“I don’t think this job is altogether in your line, Mrs Crumpler,” said
the farmer.
Sally timidly raised her eyes to his face, but could make nothing of it,
half-hidden as it was by his great brown beard.
“I bain’t gettin’ on so very bad, thank ’ee, sir,” she answered,
curtseying as well as she could on top of her load. “I’ll—I’ll be able
to manage better with a little more practice.”
“Yes, and while you’re practising my hay will be sliding about all over
the field,” he rejoined gruffly. “You’d best get down again and give up
your place to Joe.”
Mrs Crumpler meekly slid to the ground, and came up to the farmer,
remarking with an ingratiating smile which belied her anxious eyes, “I d’
’low I’m best at rakin’.”
“I d’ ’low you are. But you undertook to fill George’s place. I don’t
pay George for doing boy’s work.”
Mrs Crumpler cogitated with a troubled face for a moment, and then her
brow cleared.
“I could come two days for Jarge’s one,” she cried triumphantly. “’Tis
to be hoped he’ll be all right to-morrow and able to do his work, but
I’ll come up this way, sir, if ye’ll let me.”
“Well, you’re a plucky little soul, I’ll say that for you,” remarked the
farmer, more good-naturedly than he had yet spoken. “There, get your
rake then.”
Mr Ellery’s words of eulogy were repeated by many voices when the men
assembled at the dinner hour in the shady corner near the pool. Mrs
Crumpler elected to go home for that meal, remarking cheerfully that she
thought Jarge would be pretty well hisself by that time, and would be
lookin’ out for a bite o’ summat.
“Maister hissel’ did tell her she was a good plucked ’un,” said Bill,
“and so she be. I d’ ’low there bain’t many ’oomen as ’ud gie
theirselves all that trouble for a chap like Jarge.”
“I could wish my missus ’ud take a leaf out of her book. There, the way
the ’ooman do go on if I do take so much as the leastest drap.”
“My wold ’ooman wouldn’t put herself out for I, neither,” said another.
As they sat and watched the retreating figure of Mrs Crumpler hastening
across the field, they felt themselves more and more injured, and were
disposed to vent their grievances on their own women-kind, who presently
appeared to minister to them.
“A few spuds,” remarked Bill, discontentedly prodding at the little basin
from which his wife had just removed the cloth. “A few spuds and hardly
so much grease to ’em as ’ll m’isten ’em. We’ve a-had a little ’ooman
among us to-day as could show ’ee summat, my dear.”
“A ’ooman!” cried Mrs Frost, instantly on the alert.
“Oh, e-es,” responded Bill, shaking his head. “A ’ooman as knowed summat
of the duties of a wife, didn’t she, Ed’ard?”
“Jist about,” said “Ed’ard” with his mouth full.
“A ’ooman what come down to take her husband’s place along o’ his bein’ a
bit drinky to-day an’ not able to work. She did come to the maister so
bold as a lion, an’ she did say, ‘Here be I, so well able to do a day’s
work as he’—didn’t she?”
“Ah!” put in Joe, raising his head from a mug of cider which had just
found its way into his hands, “an’ when she did find she couldn’t get on
so fast as us menfolks, she says to maister, ‘I can do two days’ work
then,’ says she, ‘to make up for it.’ That’s a ’ooman!” With a further
shake of the head as a tribute to the absent Mrs Crumpler, Joe applied
himself to the cider-mug again, but this last remark was taken up by
several of his neighbours.
“That’s a ’ooman, indeed,” they said, and every man whose better-half
chanced to be in attendance looked reproachfully at her as he spoke.
“Well, I’m sure,” exclaimed one irate matron, catching up her empty
basket, “she must be a wonderful faymale whoever she mid be, but I’d like
to know who looks after the house while she be traipsin’ about i’ the
fields. Some folks has one notion o’ dooty an’ some has another. To my
mind it’s more a ’ooman’s duty to see to things at home—to get her
husband’s dinner an’ that—”
“There, ’tis just the very thing what she’ve gone home-along to do,”
shouted Bill.
“An’ so tired as the creature was, too, wasn’t she?” said somebody.
“Ah! that was she,” rejoined somebody else. “There she was fair wore
out. The perspiration was a-pourin’ down her face. ‘Sit down an’ rest,
do, my dear,’ says I. ‘No,’ says she, ‘I must run home so quick as I can
to get my Jarge’s dinner.”
“Jarge!” said Mrs Frost, with withering scorn, “Jarge! It’ll be that
poor little down-trod Mrs Crumpler they be all keepin’ up such a charm
about,” she explained contemptuously to her neighbour with the basket.
“Mrs Crumpler—that poor little plain-faytured—”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” interrupted Bill; “I d’ ’low Jarge do
think Sally hasn’t her match i’ th’ world.”
“‘You be a plucky little ’ooman,’” chanted old Joe, gazing maliciously at
the crestfallen assemblage of matrons; “them was Farmer Ellery’s words: a
plucky little ’ooman. Be there any cider left—?”
“Just a little,” said Bill.
“Hand it here, then,” cried Joe with a virtuous air; “we’ll drink Mrs
Crumpler’s health.”
“Well,” said Mrs Frost, turning away with an indignant air, “I wouldn’t
like to have Mrs Crumpler’s conscience, however plucky she mid be. A
body would have thought ’twas bad enough to have a drunken husband wi’out
teachin’ other folks to get into bad ways. Drink her health, indeed!
Somebody did ought to speak to her.”
The suggestion was warmly taken up, and a select deputation of three
immediately turned their steps in the direction of Mrs Crumpler’s
cottage.
The matron with the basket, one Mrs Dewey by name, had volunteered to be
spokeswoman; but she stopped short in the open doorway conscious of a
certain diffidence, for Mr Crumpler, very pale in complexion and watery
about the eyes, was up and seated in his elbow-chair by the fire.
Sally, who with a flushed and tired face was making hasty preparations
for dinner, turned as Mrs Dewey paused on the threshold, and smiled
cheerfully.
“Come in, do, Mrs Dewey, I haven’t a minute to shake hands—I be terr’ble
busy. There, my poor husband did have a accident last night, an’ I be
takin’ his place in the hay-field.”
“So we heared,” rejoined Mrs Dewey sedately.
She stepped in, followed by Mrs Frost and Jenny Weatherby, the remaining
member of the deputation, a spinster with a father just as troublesome as
anybody else’s husband. All took their seats in response to a hurried
wave of Mrs Crumpler’s hand.
“Oh, ye’ve heared!” said Sally, looking from one to the other with a
somewhat awkward laugh.
“E-es,” said Mrs Dewey, “we’ve heared. An’ we did hear the cause o’ your
doin’ it, too.”
“Oh, an’ did you?” said Sally.
Mr Crumpler cleared his throat in an absent-minded kind of way, and
looked abstractedly at the fire.
Mrs Frost, after waiting a second or two to see if Mrs Dewey would take
the initiative, shot a severe glance in his direction, and then addressed
herself to his wife, who, with symptoms of gathering irritation, not
unmixed with perturbation, was now laying the table.
“E-es, Mrs Crumpler,” she said, in a loud, clear voice, “me and Mrs Dewey
an’ Jenny Weatherby there, us felt it our dooty to step up an’ say a word
or two to ye about it. ’Tis terr’ble bad example what you’ve a-been
a-givin’ to-day, Mrs Crumpler.”
“Bad example!” gasped Sally, clapping down the tumbler which she had been
ostensibly polishing, and whisking round sharply.
“Well, I don’t know what else you can call it,” put in Mrs Dewey
indignantly. “I’m sure the men is hard enough to manage at the best o’
times, an’ when a ’ooman like you goes encouragin’ of ’em in their bad
ways and wickedness, ’tis a shame and a disgrace, Mrs Crumpler.”
“A public shame, so ’tis,” exclaimed Jenny. Sally turned quite pale.
“Why, what have I done?” she cried.
“Done!” echoed the deputation in chorus.
“What have I done?” repeated Sally, with a stamp of the foot, and raising
her voice so as to drown the outcry. “When my husband found hisself
onfit to do his work this marnin’ I went out an’ did it for en, so as
maister shouldn’t turn en away.”
“Ho, yes,” said Mrs Dewey, folding her arms, “that was what ye done; we
all knows that well enough. Ye was a-boastin’ an a-braggin’ of it loud
enough, I’m sure, settin’ yourself up an tryin’ to make every man o’ the
place discontented and upset.”
“Me!” exclaimed Mrs Crumpler indignantly. “I’m sure I never opened my
mouth to get a-boastin’ or anything o’ the kind.”
“Oh, didn’t ye!” retorted Jenny. “I heared my father say as you went an
offered maister to do two days’ work to make up for one your husband had
a-lost through bein’ drinky.”
“Well,” rejoined Sally, whose blood was now up, “that wasn’t boastin’.”
“’Twas a-settin’ yourself up above the rest of us and a-puttin’ notions
into the men’s heads what be bad enough as ’tis,” cried Mrs Dewey.
“Why, they’ll all be expectin’ of us to do the same,” exclaimed Mrs
Frost, “to be sure they will. The very next time Frost gets drunk he’ll
up and ax me, as like as not, why I don’t do his work for en, same as
Sally Crumpler.”
At this point, Mr Crumpler, whose shoulders might have been observed to
heave during the last few moments, suddenly pushed back his chair and
burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well done!” he cried. “Well done, Sally! I d’ ’low there b’ain’t a man
in the place but what envies me.”
Thereupon the deputation turned upon him as one woman.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” asked Mrs Dewey.
“You did ought to want to go and hide your head,” exclaimed Jenny.
“Sich a man as that didn’t ought to look honest folk i’ th’ face,”
remarked Mrs Frost witheringly.
But Jarge laughed on, eyeing the three the while with so quizzical an air
that they were positively discomfited. Finally he rose and made his way
to the door—walking quite straight by the way—and politely requested the
ladies to step out.
This they did, overturning a chair or two in their hasty passage.
Jarge closed the door, but, apparently struck by a sudden thought, opened
it again and thrust his head through the aperture.
“I b’ain’t ashamed o’ myself, good souls,” shouted Mr Crumpler after the
retreating figures, “but I tell ye what—I be jist about proud o’ my
little ’ooman.”
Mrs Crumpler remained, however, somewhat discomposed by the recent event,
and when she took her way fieldwards again, it was with a downcast
countenance. Jarge would have accompanied her, but for the fact that,
though he had regained control of his legs and could speak with
comparative clearness, he continued to see double.
“An’ that mid be a bit awk’ard wi’ so many harses about,” he confided to
Sally.
Moreover the wound in his head was sufficiently painful to make a further
rest advisable. Sally set forth therefore alone, feeling tired and
miserable enough. She was the most modest little creature in the world,
and was filled with dismay at the notoriety she had so suddenly acquired.
As the afternoon advanced she shrank more and more into her shell, for if
the ill-will of the women had vexed and perturbed her, the boisterous
admiration of the men annoyed her almost beyond endurance. The rough
jests, the officious offers of aid, the loudly expressed praise were
equally obnoxious to her. It was with unbounded relief that she saw the
last waggon loaded, and prepared to depart from the field. She had
shaken out her skirts, and was in the act of straightening her sunbonnet
when she found herself suddenly seized from behind, and almost before she
realised what was happening, was hauled by a dozen strong grimy hands on
to the apex of the piled-up hay and there enthroned.
“Three cheers for the Queen o’ the Day!” shouted someone, and the cry was
taken up by a score of lusty voices.
“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!”
“Let me down,” gasped Mrs Crumpler faintly; but an extra pair of horses
had been harnessed to the waggon, and it was now rumbling forward at what
seemed to her a dangerously rapid rate.
There sat the poor little woman on her sweet-smelling throne, the
reluctant centre of all eyes, while the waggon went out of the field and
down the village street surrounded by a shouting band of haymakers.
Outraged matrons stood in the doorways raising indignant eyes to Heaven,
delighted children ran after the convoy, adding their shrill voices to
the chorus; last of all Jarge Crumpler himself, startled by the outcry,
made his way to his own gate just as the triumphal procession drew up
before it.
“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” shouted Bill Frost; and
“Hooray, hooray!” cried the bystanders.
Jarge himself, infected by the enthusiasm, shouted “Hooray” too, just as
little Sally, very red in the face, came sliding down from the waggon.
As she heard him she stopped for a second, threw a reproachful glance at
him, and then, bursting into smothered sobs, hurried into the house.
After a pause of bewilderment he hastened after her, while the haymakers,
with a farewell cheer, continued their progress at a more leisurely pace,
with a dozen children clinging to the tail-board of the waggon, and one
or two of the more adventurous perched on the load itself.
Sally was crouching behind the door with her apron over her head, sobbing
as if her heart would break.
“Missus!” said Jarge, becoming quite sober all at once, and seeing only
the very distinct outline of one little sorrowful figure.
“Missus!—little ’ooman!”
Sally jerked down her apron and gazed at him with eyes that were fierce
through their tears.
“You did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” she cried brokenly.
Jarge looked down at her ruefully and drew a long breath.
“Well,” he said, “I d’ ’low I be!”
* * *
He repeated this statement on the following morning when he presented
himself to Farmer Ellery, humbly petitioning that his fault might be
overlooked, and promising to work an hour or two “extry” every day to
make up for the time which had been lost.
“For I shouldn’t like my missus to come out a-workin’ any more,” he
explained.
The farmer looked at him sharply, grunted, and finally agreed.
“I’ll give you another chance,” he said, “but I don’t know how long
you’ll keep straight.”
“I be a-goin’ for to turn over a new leaf,” said Jarge firmly, and to
everyone’s surprise he actually did.