Though hay looks light and easy to lift, yet when the fork has gathered a goodly bundle, to hoist it high overhead, and continue the operation, is really heavy labour. Valentine was physically a smaller made man than Geoffrey, whose broad shoulders had also been developed both by athletic exercise at home and by work in Australia—work done from choice, not necessity. But though smaller, Valentine was extremely tough, wiry, and nimble, as is often the case with gentlemen who “fancy” horses. Quick in his movements, he caught the knack of “pitching” almost immediately. He hastily flung up his “wake” as far as the horse in the shafts, and then walked to the rear of the wagon where Margaret was raking, leaving Geoffrey still engaged.
Margaret and May were looking at a nest of harvest-trows, as the tiny mice are called that breed in the grass. Valentine began to talk about his horses, knowing Margaret was fond of animals, and said that a “string” of his would pass Greene Ferne in the evening en route to his stables. Now Geoffrey, glancing back, saw the group apparently in earnest conversation from which he was excluded; and noting Margaret’s attention to Valentine, grew jealous and angry. Just as he finished “pitching,” and was about to join them—
“Tchek!” from Augustus, and on the horses moved, and he had to recommence work. Valentine ran with his prong, and again, by dint of great exertions, finished his side first, and returned to Margaret.
“Tchek! woaght!”
The third time Valentine essayed the same task, delighted to leave Geoffrey in the cold, and to exhibit his superior prowess. But Geoffrey by now had learned how to handle his fork. His muscles were strung, his blood was up, he warmed to his work, and pitched vast bundles that all but buried and half choked Jabez, who was loading on the wagon.
“The dust be all down my droat! Aw, doan’t ’ee, measter!” he cried, in smothered tones.
“Tchek!” and this time Valentine was far behind, and Geoffrey had gone back to talk to Margaret. At the next move Geoffrey not only cleared his side up to the horse in the shafts, but by using his great strength to the utmost, went ahead up the wake eight or ten yards, and thus secured himself twice as long with her, while Valentine had to remain “pitching.” To Jabez the shepherd, on the wagon, it was fine sport to watch the rivalry of the “gennelmen.” A labouring man thoroughly enjoys seeing the perspiration pouring from the faces of the well-to-do. He bustled about as fast as he could, and kept the horses moving. By superior muscular force Geoffrey remained ahead. To Valentine it was gall and wormwood.
“We be getting on famous, zur,” said Jabez. “Tchek!”
Mrs. Estcourt had meantime left the field, after beckoning to Augustus, who followed her. While she was present there was some check on their rivalry; but no sooner did they perceive that she was gone than it rose to a still greater height. Valentine, pulling himself together, and taking advantage of a thinner wake than usual, ran ahead, and went back to the rear. Seeing this, Geoffrey hurled the hay up with such force and vigour that he literally covered the shepherd, who could barely struggle out of it.
“Lord, I be as dry as a gicks!” said Jabez, when he did get free, and meaning by his simile the stem of a dead hedge-plant.
“And here’s bailie wi’ th’ bottle. Bide a bit, my lards.”
By this time “my lards” thoroughly understood why haymakers like their ale, and plenty of it. Working under the hot sun, with the dust or dry pollen flying from the hay, causes intense thirst. So the wagon stood still, and Valentine, hot and angry, took the bottle—being the nearest—from Augustus, and essayed to drink. This “bottle” was a miniature cask of oaken staves, with iron hoops, and a leathern strap to carry it by. It held about a gallon. To drink, the method is to put the lips to the bunghole, situate at the largest part of the circumference, toss the barrel up, and hold the head back. Valentine could not get more than the merest sip, though the bottle was quite full. This, scientifically speaking, was caused by the pressure of the atmosphere. There is the same difficulty in drinking from a flask.
“Let th’ aair in—let th’ aair in!” said the shepherd, himself an adept. “Open th’ carner of yer mouth.”
But attempting to do that Val let too much “aair” in, and spilt the ale, to his intense disgust.
“Put th’ cark in, zur, and chuck un up to I.” Jabez caught the “bottle” as tenderly as a mother would her infant and quitted not his hold till half the contents had disappeared, nor would he have left it then, had not Augustus grumbled and claimed his turn. Mrs. Estcourt now returned, attended by a servant carrying a basket of refreshments for which she had gone, not forgetting the more civilised bottles issued by the divine Bass. Throwing down forks and rakes, they assembled in the shade of the tall hawthorn hedge and sat down on the hay. When the delicate flavour of his cigar floated away on the soft summer air, even Valentine’s acerbity of temper relaxed. Opposite, at some distance, stood the wagon now fully loaded; Diamond and Captain eating the hay put for them, and the shepherd lying at full length on the grass. Augustus, the “bottle” by his side, and his hand laid lovingly on it, fell asleep in the shade of the wagon.
The wild-roses on the briars that stretched out from the hedge towards the meadow opened their petals full to the warmth. The breeze rustled the leaves of the
