‘If I do sing it, I mun sing it right through,’ said the old man, with a wink. ‘I can’t mind the verses without I sing them in arder.’ She laughed; for many of his verses were indecent. ‘You shall sing just what you like, Dan,’ she said. As well quarrel with the indecency of the Bible as that of Avery’s songs. Mr Prosser had told the men to leave their work at five o’clock instead of at six, in order that they might go home to clean themselves and fetch their families. Only Hayes, the cowman, who slept on the premises, was to be left behind. Abner, old Avery, and Harris set off down the drive together. The others moved too slowly for Abner, for he had seven miles in front of him. All day long Harris had taken a malicious pleasure in letting Abner know that his time was up and that The Dyke would soon be shut of him. There had been one or two ugly moments, softened by the good humour of old Dan. Now they walked alongside in silence, Abner setting the pace. ‘Hey, you do go too fast for old bones, my son!’ said Avery. ‘Wants to get home to his missus,’ said Harris. ‘Here, you’d better drop that!’ said Abner warningly. But Harris would not be warned. He knew, as well as the others, that Mary Malpas had not been invited to The Dyke. ‘I reckon you’m going to leave her behind to-night,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’d better mind your own business. I’ve had a damn sight too much of your lip.’ Harris laughed. ‘Stands to reason they won’t have that kind of muck in the company of decent married women and innocent childer,’ he said. Abner did not wait to answer him. He let out with his right, catching Harris on the temple, and sent him spinning toward the ditch. ‘Steady, lad, steady!’ cried old Avery. Harris pulled himself together and made straight for Abner with his head low down like a bull. He was the older man, and, in spite of the iron strength of his arms, Abner always had the advantage. Harris fought desperately with his hob-nailed boots as well as his fists. They fought till their faces were bloody and their clothes torn. Old Avery whined at them to give over, but they took no notice of him. At last Abner drove Harris into the ditch, where he lay spluttering blood. ‘I reckon that’ll teach you to keep your bleedin’ mouth shut!’ said Abner savagely, and left him there with the old man trembling and shedding weak tears above him. He washed in the Folly Brook and had made himself fairly presentable by the time he reached Wolfpits. ‘I thought you were going to the harvest home,’ said Mary. ‘Then you thought wrong,’ said Abner irritably. ‘Give us some tea.’ Neither Harris nor his family turned up at The Dyke that evening. Old Dan, who had kept his own counsel, was in the middle of his mole-catching song when one of the ploughman’s children came in with a message to say that her dad was in a fever, and the bed wringing wet under him. ‘Why didn’t your mother come?’ Prosser asked. ‘Dad wouldn’t let her,’ said the child.