“And wot maakes you think as we’ll ever have done, as things are?... Go forrard five mile in a year, and it’ll be two hundred years afore we git to the Kayser’s royal palace. You see ’em all fighting around a farm as it wur the Tower of Lunnon—their objective, they call it. If Worge wur an objective it ud taake the Germans fifteen month to git into it, and we’d taake another fifteen month to git ’em out; and then they’d git in agaun, and it ud go on lik that till the plaace wur in shards. I tell you this aun’t a hurrying sort of war, and ull be won by them wot lives longest.” Tom was impressed. “Seemingly you know more about it than I do.” “I read the paapers, and reckon I do a bit of thinking as well.” “Reckon you do. Howsumdever, it’s my plaace to fight and not to think—I leave that to men lik you.” In spite of his respect for Mus’ Beatup as a military tactician, he was a bit disgusted with him as a farmer. A searching of the farm accounts and an examination of the shame-faced Harry revealed a state of affairs even more depressing than he had looked for. The harvest had been mismanaged, the oats having been allowed to stand too long, and a quantity of seed had been lost. The blight had got into the hops owing to insufficient spraying, and two sheep had died of bronchitis. Tom was at first inclined to be angry. Harry acknowledged having played truant on one or two important occasions, though he insisted, whiningly, that he had worked “lik ten black slaves” for most of the summer. If he had always been on the spot, the aberrations of Mus’ Beatup and the laziness and pigheadedness of Elphick and Juglery might have been counteracted to a certain degree. Tom would have liked to have beaten Harry, just to teach him the disadvantages of ratting in harvest-time, but he was now oddly loath to exercise the old compulsory tyrannies. He saw, too, the pathos of Harry’s youth, forced to play watch-dog to middle-aged vice and ancient inefficiency. So, instead of being angry, he was just patient. He went out a good deal during his leave, and the family whispered, “Thyrza Honey”; but in the afternoons and soft evenings, when all the fields were rusty in the harvest moon, he would walk with Harry over the farm, and point out to him the work that would have soon to be done in the way of sowings and diggings, with never a word of reproach for the pitiable deeds of the summer. “It aun’t too late to try fur a catch crop or two—harrow some clover on the Volunteer stubble, and if you sow early and late red, and late white, you’ll git cuttings right on into June. I wudn’t have potato oats agaun fur the Street field—their rootses git too thick fur clays, and they shed seed unaccountable if you leave them standing a day over their due. Try Sandy oat this fall—and Flemish oat is good in clays, I’ve heard tell. And the two-acre shud go into potash next year—wurzels or swedes, or maybe potatoes.” “I’ll never kip all this in my head, Tom.”