“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.