“We’ll be unaccountable glad to have you both—the rain’s blowing up and we’re short of workers.” “I’m on it, as the boys say, and so’s the Sergeant, I reckon.” “Sure,” said Sergeant Staples, staring round him. “Mother’s gitting a valiant supper fur us when ’tis all a-done. She says if you’ve bruk the Sabbath one way you may as well break it another and maake a good job of it. Thyrza’s coming, and is bringing all her tinned salmon. Wot do you think of my sunshade, Nell?—reckon it’s unaccountable smart,” and Ivy threw it down into the stubble and began rolling up her sleeves. “It’s middling kind of you,” said Harry politely to Sergeant Staples. “Only too glad—I’ve done a power of this work over in Sask. May I ask what this little buggy is?”—and he pointed to the nodding erection of old Juglery chaired above the reins that slacked on Tassell’s rump. “That’s the reaper, surelye.” The Canadian did not speak, but the puzzled look deepened on his face. “Maybe you’ll taake a sickle, being handy-like?” “Sure”—but when Harry gave him Mus’ Beatup’s discarded weapon he held it at arm’s length and scratched his head. Then he slid up to Ivy— “Say, kid, I never heard before as in the old country they cut corn with a pocket-knife.” However, he swung his tool handily, and with the two new workers, and the extra energy of the old, the reaping went forward at a pace which threatened the victory of those black clouds over Galleybird. The wind blew in droning gusts, swishing in the corn, and fiddling in the boughs of Forges Wood. Dead leaves began to fly out of the wood, the threat of autumn. The men’s shirts blew against their skins, and the women’s skirts flew out; the colours of the field grew dim—the corn was white, the wood and the hedges were grey—only the clothes of the harvesters stood out in smudges of pink and blue. Then suddenly rain began to squirt down out of a black smeary sky like charcoal—the wind screamed, almost flattening the few last rods. No one spoke, for no voice could be heard above the howling of the wind. Rabbits began to pop out of the corn, but there were no hunting dogs, no shouting groups from the cottages come out to see the fun. When the last sickleful had been cut, and the reaper stood still, with old Juglery asleep on the seat, the harvesters picked up their coats and pulled down their sleeves without a word.