'Then you cannot do it. Thatching a rick is not an acquirement that comes by the light of nature. What do you say about hedging? A good hedger is worth a great deal. Dickon Spry――the hedges he built up, though he did some when he was a boy like you――are as good now as they were seventy years agone. Tate Wetherell was set to hedge after Dickon's death, last fall, and they are down already that he set up. You must know the sort of stones to use, and which end to drive in, how to wedge them tight, and how to fill in behind. It is an art.' 'I will endeavour to learn.' 'Thank you kindly, try on some one else's hedges, if you please. How about ditching?' 'Any one can dig.' 'I beg your pardon. Any one cannot so as to lay a drain. There are drains and drains. I have known many a hundred pounds thrown away as completely as if chucked into the Axe mud by setting men to drain as did not know the trade. It is a sad misfortune, young man, that all the time and money that were spent on your education in what is of no profit to man or beast, were not employed in setting you to learn from an old farm labourer what is useful. You cannot mow――you would cut your leg off with the scythe. You cannot plough a straight furrow――you would be upset at once. You cannot shear a sheep――you would cut off the flesh and kill the poor beast. You could not milk a cow dry――but would spoil its udder. No scholars for me, thank you. Look at this cow――it has inflammation and will die. There goes twenty to twenty-five pound, all through the ignorance of Richard Piper.' Discouraged and sad at heart, Jack walked away, and forgot to call for his glass of cider at the farm. When Moses Nethersole came in, his wife said to him sharply, 'What did Jack Rattenbury want with you?' The farmer informed her. 'And you have not engaged him?' 'Of course not.' 'He was a born fool,' said the woman. 'Had he applied to me and not to you, I'd have took him on, sure as I'm alive. He's a fine, upstanding, good-looking lad. We could well do with such as he.' Crestfallen, Jack made his way into Seaton. He knew that the farmer was right. His hands were not horny for labour, and although he was willing to learn, he might spoil a great deal in the process of learning. He directed his course to the Red Lion, and went into the bar, where Mrs. Warne was sitting alone, looking into the fire, and dreaming of commercials. At a sign from the hostess he seated himself near her. 'Shall I draw you a half-pint?' she asked. 'Thank you, yes,' said he, 'but I have not come here for bitter beer. I have bitters enough without adding to them. The fact is, my few shillings are nearly run out.' 'Into Dench's purse?' Jack did not answer this. Turning his hat about nervously, he said, 'I want you to find me some occupation, Mrs. Warne. You are a dear good creature, as every one knows.'