“No water,” he said weakly. “No more water,” and then catching Mr. Benshaw’s eye he got rather quickly to his feet. Everybody who wasn’t already standing was getting up, and everyone now was rather carefully getting himself off any strawberry plant he had chanced to find himself smashing in the excitement of the occasion. “That’s the man that started in on me,” said Mr. Benshaw. “What’s he doing here? Who is he?” “Who are _you_, my man? What business have you to be careering over this field?” asked Mr. Rymell. “I was only ’elping,” said the tramp. “Nice help,” said Mr. Benshaw. “I thought that boy was a thief or something.” “And so you made a rush at me.” “I didn’t exactly—sir—I thought you was ’elping ’im.” “You be off, anyhow,” said Mr. Benshaw. “Whatever you thought.” “Yes, you be off!” said Mr. Rymell. “That’s the way, my man,” said Mr. Benshaw. “We haven’t any jobs for you. The sooner we have you out of it the better for everyone. Get right on to the path and keep it.” And with a desolating sense of exclusion the tramp withdrew. “There’s pounds and pounds’ worth of damage here,” said Mr. Benshaw. “This job’ll cost me a pretty penny. Look at them berries there. Why, they ain’t fit for jam! And all done by one confounded boy.” An evil light came into Mr. Benshaw’s eyes. “You leave him to me and my chaps. If he’s gone up among those sheds there—we’ll settle with him. Anyhow there’s no reason why my fruit should be trampled worse than it has been. Fruit stealer, you say, he is?” “They live on the country this time of year,” said Mr. Mumby. “And catch them doing a day’s work picking!” said Mr. Benshaw. “I know the sort.” “There’s a reward of five pounds for ’im already,” said the baker.... § 4