“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.”