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.”