During his first week of idleness Abner went out every day visiting the farms of the neighbourhood in search of a promise of harvest work. It was a lean year: the drought of the summer had stunted the straw; a couple of violent thunderstorms had done more harm than good, and the farmers were now hanging on as long as they dared, gambling on the chance of rain that was due. Wherever Abner went they shook their heads. ‘Can’t say when we’ll be cutting,’ they said. ‘Next week, or week after, or three weeks’ time. It depends on the weather, and the damned stuff’s that poor it isn’t worth reaping. Worse than the hay . . . and that’s saying something!’ At night, when he came home, Mary looked anxiously for his news, but he could tell her nothing. He made casts farther afield. He did not care how far he went if only he could find work; but down in the plains, although he could see for himself that the ears were fuller, he was met by the same evasive replies. He came to hate the sight of these sour, prosperous farmers. It seemed to him that they all had the same callous faces as the distant Mr Cookson who had killed his dog; but he knew better than to let Spider follow him on these visits. ‘You might try Mr Prosser of The Dyke,’ said old Drew one evening. ‘That be a fine big farm, and they say he do go in for barley.’ Next day Abner visited The Dyke. It was a farm that he had missed in his former expeditions, a house buried in beechwoods that stood, unappropriately, high and dry on a lofty ridge south of the main road between Mainstone and Lesswardine. It lay five miles from Wolfpits as the crow flies, and nearly seven by road. A green drive bordered by hazels and sheltered by smooth beeches in which squirrels were playing, brought him to the house: a melancholy edifice, built four-square, and covered with plaster that had once been painted white but was now streaked with green. He knocked at the back door, but could make nobody hear. A dog flew out of a kennel near the yard gate, tugging at his chain, and inside the house two others, excited by the sound, came pattering along the passage and scraped at the lower edge of the door with their paws. Abner gave it up. Evidently nobody was at home. He took a drink of cold water at the pump and set off home through the green lane. Half-way down it he heard a sound of muffled hoofs, and a dog-cart, of the sturdy kind that farmers use, came swinging round the corner. The driver was a woman of twenty-five to thirty years of age, swarthy, with a rich autumnal colouring, and gray eyes. Another, younger girl, with her hair in a pigtail, sat beside her. They passed Abner at a trot, but twenty yards later the driver pulled up and looked back. ‘Have you been up to The Dyke?’ she called. ‘Yes, miss,’ said Abner, taking off his cap, and approaching. ‘I don’t suppose you’d find any one in,’ she said. ‘Dad’s gone to Ludlow, and the girl’s out. What do you want?’