Part 4

“I was readin’ a while back,” continued Jess, without heeding these signs of disapproval, “how some colliery chaps what was wantin’ shorter hours got their way—they did go on strike too. The measters had to give in. Well, why shouldn’t us go on strike for a drop o’ beer at haymakin’ time?”

The others looked at each other and then at Jess, who, with his battered chip hat pushed back upon his stubbly grizzled head, returned their gaze defiantly.

“I’d start it soon enough,” he observed, “if I could get the rest o’ ye to back me up; but ye haven’t got no more spirit nor a pack o’ mice.”

At this moment the farmer’s stentorian voice hailed them from the gate.

“Now then, now then, what be doin’ over there?”

The gate creaked violently on its hinges, and swung to with a re-echoing bang behind the master, whose long legs carried him towards the idlers at a prodigious pace, while, as he strode along, he kept up a flow of sarcastic admonitions.

“I d’ ’low you folks do seem to think ’tis safe to let the grass grow under your feet these times, but I tell ye I do want to save this crop afore thinkin’ about another. . . . Jim Stuckey, I hope ye be restin’ yerself so well as the harses. Well, Jess, ye be awaitin’ for the rain to fall, I d’ ’low.”

He had reached the group by this time; Jim was already almost out of earshot, the rattle of his machine drowning the last words. But Jess heard them. His comrades had already resumed their labours, but he remained standing still, leaning upon his rake, and surveying his master with a lowering gaze.

“Don’t hurry yourself, Jess,” observed Farmer Old, with a sneer.

He was a tall man, but spare of figure, with long wiry limbs, and a face burnt mahogany-colour and fringed by a grey beard; his small black eyes were as expressionless as sloes, but there were certain humourous lines about his mouth.

“Talkin’ o’ rain,” observed Jess sternly, “a man mid very well wish for it these times; a drap or two mid m’isten his tongue.”

Mr Old was so staggered by this remark, which, under the actual conditions, appeared to him almost blasphemous, that he found himself for the moment unable to reply.

“Some folks,” resumed Jess, “as we was a-sayin’ just now—”

“Speak for yerself,” growled Martin, uneasy under the gaze of his master’s sloe-black eyes.

“Well, an’ I will sp’ake for myself, an’ I’ll sp’ake out,” cried Jess with spirit. “I say, Measter, a man wi’ a heart in his body ’ud take a bit o’ thought for his men, an’ ’ud not let ’em go wantin’ a drap o’ beer on such a day as this.”

“A drap o’ beer!” ejaculated Old with a relieved laugh. “That’s what be the matter, be it. I d’ ’low, Jess, ye’ve a-had a drap too much a’ready.”

“I’ll take my oath I haven’t!” exclaimed Jess, much incensed at this undeserved accusation; indeed the mere suggestion appeared to intensify the longing which he was supposed to have partially gratified. “I haven’t a-had a glass to-day, Measter, nor likely to, seein’ it’s Friday, and my wold woman she do never allow I a penny at the back-end o’ the week.”

“’Tis because you do get through your ’lowance at the beginning,” returned the farmer, preparing to move on.

“Nay, now, bide a bit, sir—I’m dalled if I don’t sp’ake out as I said I would. There’s Measter Inkpen, what haven’t a-got so big a farm as you’ve a-got, an’ what b’ain’t a-layin’ by so mich money—well, when his men be a-workin’ so hard as what we be a-doin’ to-day, he do send ’em out some beer to the field. Martin Fry was a-tellin’ us about it—wasn’t ye, Martin?”

“Well,” said Martin uneasily, “I did hear some sich talk fro’ my brother James what works up to Inkpen’s, and I mid ha’ mentioned it, but I don’t want no argyment about it.”

“No need to have no argyments,” returned the farmer blandly. “Measter Inkpen have a-got his notions, an’ I’ve a-got mine. An’ I’ll tell ye straight out, my bwoys, I’ve got no notion o’ sendin’ out beer to folks what be a-earnin’ good wage an’ can buy for theirselves so much as is good for ’em. A man’s better wi’out it to my mind.”

“If that be your notion, Measter, I’m sorry for ye,” shouted Jess, whom the last remark had incensed beyond bounds of caution. “There, ’tis treatin’ your human fellow-creeturs worse nor the beasts of the field. Look at them cows yonder—ye’d never think o’ lettin’ them go dry. Wasn’t we standin’ up to our knees in muck last spring a-cleanin’ the pond for ’em. There’s one a-standin’ in it now a-drinkin’, an’ a-coolin’ his legs. I d’ ’low ’tis enough to make a body envy the dumb brutes.”

Farmer Old fixed him with his expressionless gaze.

“Well, Jess,” he returned, with a provoking mildness which added fuel to Jess’s wrath. “I b’ain’t a onreasonable man, I hope. I have no objection at all to your goin’ an’ standin’ in the pond to cool your legs and refresh yourself. ’Ees, I’ll allow ye five minutes.”

The men’s laughter rang out loudly at this sally; the distant rattle of the hay-rake ceased for a moment as Stuckey drew rein, and turned in his seat in the hope of ascertaining the nature of the joke. But Jess threw his rake from him, and turned upon his master with anger tempered by dignity.

“Then I’ll tell ye what it is, sir,” he cried. “Flesh and blood can’t bear it no longer. I be a-goin’ on strike.”

Mr Old surveyed him for a moment; then he glanced at Jess’s fellow-workers, just the fraction of a gleam being perceptible in his inscrutable eyes. But Martin and his companions raked away as if their lives depended on the speed with which they accomplished their task.

“Oh, ye be goin’ on strike, be ye?” he observed. “Goin’ to strike all by yourself seemingly.”

Again he glanced at the gang of rakers, whose efforts became if possible more strenuous than before, and who appeared quite unconscious of what was going on; then he set his legs a little more wide apart and whistled.

“Ye want a rise of wages, I suppose?” he continued calmly.

Jess considered, and then threw out his hand impressively. There was a certain appearance of tension about the bent backs of the workers. It would be a queer thing if, after all, the master were going to give in to Jess.

“No, Measter,” said the latter with a virtuous air. “Ye rose me last year an’ I b’ain’t the man to ax for more now; but a drap o’ beer’s another thing. I be goin’ on strike, Measter Old, till you agree for to send us out a drap o’ refreshment at such times as these.”

“I’m glad ye didn’t ax for more wage, Jess,” returned Old, still mildly, “because ye wouldn’t ha’ got it. As for sendin’ out refreshment, as I did tell ye jist now, I’ve got no notion o’ doin’ no sich thing.”

“Well, Measter,” responded Jess, “I’m sorry for to disapp’int ye but I’ll ha’ to knock off work till ye give in.”

“Jist oblige me by handin’ me that there rake,” said the farmer. “There’s a couple o’ teeth gone—I’ll have to fine ye three-pence for that. Ye shouldn’t throw my property about that way. I can pay ye the rest o’ your wage now if ye like. To-morrow comes off, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Jess, staring a little blankly however. He did not expect that Mr Old would accept his resignation with so much promptness and such evident placidity.

The farmer now produced a greasy leather purse and counted out the sum of twelve shillings and nine pence.

He doled out the last-named fraction in pennies, and as each chinked upon his palm Jess’s countenance fell more and more.

“I don’t know but what I’ve let ye have a bit over,” observed Mr Old, with a dubious look. “’Tis a bit ar’kard to make a calculation all in a minute like this. But there, you’ve worked for me nigh upon ten year now; I’ll not be too close wi’ ye.”

Jess pocketed the coins and shambled away without speaking. After twenty paces or so, however, he turned. Nobody was looking after him; his late master was now plying his own discarded rake; his former comrades were working with the same fury of zeal which had seized them from the instant of Mr Old’s appearance. At the sight, Jess’s long-gathering fury broke forth.

“So that’s how you treat I!” he exclaimed. “Me, what’s worked for ’ee ten year. You do pack me off wi’out a word. Ees, n’arn o’ ’ee has so much as a word to throw at I, what’s done my best an’ worked along o’ ye these years and years.”

Martin Fry glanced up with a stricken look, but apparently found nothing to say; somebody did murmur inarticulately that he was sure he wished Jess well, an’ couldn’t say no more nor that, but none of the others could be said to respond to his appeal. Farmer Old gazed at him with apparent amazement.

“Ye be a-plaisin’ of yerself, b’ain’t ye?” he enquired. “Ye be a-goin’ on strike to plaise yerself?” Jess rallied his pride.

“In course I be, but I be a-goin’ on strike along o’ bein’ treated so bad.”

“Well, ye’ll not ha’ no more bad treatment to complain on now,” returned Old. “Ye be a-plaisin’ o’ yerself, as I do say. I do like folks to plaise theirselves.”

Jess walked away.

Considering the strain of the recent struggle, the uncommon heat of the day, the abnormal thirst from which he was suffering, and the fact that he would shortly be called upon to face his wold ’ooman, it is not surprising that he should have turned into the “Three Choughs” before proceeding on his homeward way. At the last-named hostelry he recovered some portion of the valour which had possessed him in the field, and which had been damped by the attitude of the farmer and his men, and indeed felt himself to be a hero. Ten minutes’ conversation with the missus, however, sufficed to disabuse him of this idea, and he went to bed in a puzzled and chastened frame of mind. Mrs Domeny had impounded the remainder of his already curtailed wage. She had also asked certain questions which Jess found it difficult to answer, such as who did he suppose would give him work now? what would become of her and the children? how were they to meet the rent if he were to be long out of work? each query being coupled with the persistent refrain, wasn’t he ashamed of himself?

With the dawn, however, fresh courage came. He had done what was only right in the interests of himself and of his colleagues, and must surely triumph in the end.

The threatened thunderstorm had blown over, but nevertheless it was a busy and critical time for farmers. Mr Old would no doubt be glad enough to come to terms now, that he, too, had had a night to sleep on the matter. They would be cutting the Twenty Acre to-day—the grass was almost over ripe and there was Sunday coming—Mr Old might possibly invite Jess to come back, and might even render the reconciliation more enduring by making the required concession.

“What’s a drap o’ beer to sich as he?” murmured Jess, as he hastily donned his garments; he himself knew how much it meant to him. If Farmer Old did not come round there would be no beer for Jess for a considerable time.

He arrived at the Twenty Acre a little before the usual time of starting work, but found to his surprise that the two mowing-machines had already begun operations. Farmer Old himself was driving the one which usually fell to Jess’s share. Jess stood leaning across the gate with a pleasant smile on his face until the last-named machine drew near him.

“Marnin’, sir,” he remarked, hailing the farmer in a genial tone. “You do seem to be early at work.”

“We be a bit shart-handed, ye see,” responded Mr Old, with a grin which displayed his remaining teeth.

This was the opportunity Jess had hoped for; he grinned back expectantly.

“It do seem a shame to see ye sittin’ up there, Farmer. It must be a good few year since you drove a mower.”

“Ees,” agreed Mr Old. “’Tis a good few year now. ’Tis a nice change.”

He flicked at the off horse’s ear as he spoke, and the machine went rattling up the field again.

Jess waited till it turned, and then marched round the gate with a determined air, taking off his coat as he advanced, and setting his hat firmly on his head.

“Come, sir,” he cried, laying his hand on the reins. “This here job be altogether too much for ye. You get down, an’ let me pop up in your place. I can’t bide to see ye a-makin’ a slave o’ yoursel’ same as that.”

“Thank ’ee, Jess, thank ’ee,” responded the farmer, clambering down with great alacrity. “Ees, I’ll not deny I’m gettin’ a bit stiff for this here work. I reckon it ’ud ha’ tried me a bit.”

“I can’t forget as I did work for ye for ten year,” observed Jess, eyeing him sharply; he felt it would be the proper thing now for the other to own he was in fault on the previous day. But Mr Old appeared to have no such intention. He handed over the reins with a beaming face, and watched Jess take his vacated seat with evident satisfaction.

“I do call it real handsome of ye to lend a hand same as ye be a-doin’,” he said, “Real handsome, but no one do know better nor you that these be busy times.”

Jess’s countenance assumed a dubious, not to say depressed, expression, as he set the mowing-machine in motion; what did the master mean? Surely he could not think Jess such a fool as to lend a hand out of mere neighbourliness? His doubts increased when at dinner-time the farmer renewed his expressions of gratitude; something very like a twinkle appearing the while in his habitually expressionless eyes.

“I’ll not expect ye to come back this afternoon,” he observed. “Ye’ll have lots o’ little jobs to do at home. Nay now, a favour’s a favour, an’ I’d never be one for to ax too much.”

Jess stared hard, scratching his jaw, and the other resumed.

“I’ve a-heerd o’ folks going on strike before, but I will say I did never hear of a man what acted so goodnatured. There, most strikers do look on the masters as they’ve a-left, as regular enemies. ’Tisn’t many as ’ud offer to do a good turn on a busy day same as you be a-doin’. Your missus did ought to allow ye a glass o’ beer to-day,” continued the farmer handsomely. “I’m sure ye do deserve it.”

“Well, I’m dalled,” growled Jess, under his breath, however, for he had sufficient self-respect to accept the situation. He walked away with as jaunty an air as he could assume, and the farmer stood watching him for a moment or two, shaking with silent laughter.

Jess passed a very dismal Sunday. His friends looked at him askance, for his conduct had occasioned much talk, and he was regarded in that little community in the light of a dangerous firebrand. His missus lost no opportunity of impressing upon him her views of his recent action; Farmer Old passed him with a smile which he could not but think savoured of malicious triumph, and Martin Fry, whom he chanced to encounter on his way from church, delivered it as his opinion that he had made a sammy of himself.

The very indignation provoked by this remark, which, as he thought, came ill from the man whose incautious speech had first evoked in his hearers a sense of personal ill-usage, suggested to Jess a new plan of action. Why not offer his services to Mr Inkpen, who would know so well how to reward them? He could not but feel gratified at the thought that it was in vaunting his generosity, and in endeavouring to force Old to follow his example, that Jess had lost his place.

He strolled round to Inkpen’s premises at a convenient hour of the evening, when he would be likely to find the master disengaged. Fortune seemed to favour him: Mr Inkpen, very much at ease in snowy Sabbath shirt sleeves, was leaning across his gate, smoking a ruminative pipe.

“Fine evenin’, sir,” began Jess.

The farmer nodded a trifle sourly.

“Ye haven’t a-got all your hay in yet, I see,” proceeded Domeny.

Mr Inkpen removed his pipe from his mouth.

“I’d like to know what business it be o’ yours whether I’ve a-got it in, or whether I haven’t?” he returned, with what seemed to Jess uncalled-for asperity.

“No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter.

“You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.”

“No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations.

“Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’ for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’ don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’ you to go a-puttin’ your word in.”

“’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—”

“Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself, whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’ arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’ arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.”

“Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.”

Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap as you among my folk for a hundred pound.”

“If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny, endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity.

“’Tis what I think,” retorted the other. “I think you be a fool—a mischievous fool, an’ I’m sorry for your wife an’ family.”

Jess betook himself home again in a very low-spirited condition indeed. Would all the masters think the same—would everyone look on him as a mischievous fool, and if so, what would become of the wold ’ooman and the children?

His presentiments were but too well justified. Nobody was anxious to employ a revolutionary who might at any moment foster discontent and promote disorder among his peaceful fellow-workers, or harass his employer with unreasonable demands.

Two or three days passed by, and Jess began to feel seriously uneasy; the long hours of enforced idleness wearied him and weighed upon his spirits. It seemed so strange to feel that there was no need to get up early, and no work waiting for him to do: His missus, indeed, provided him with a good many odd jobs which occupied him at first, but on one particular morning he found himself absolutely at a loss.

Mrs Domeny was elbow-deep in suds; the children had all gone to school; he had finished weeding the garden, and cleaning the hen-house, and chopping the sticks; positively nothing remained for him to do. There was no use proceeding towards the “Three Choughs,” for his pockets were empty, and the landlord had long ago refused to allow him credit. He sauntered down the little flagged path and leaned over his own paintless garden-gate. Old Bright, who was crippled with rheumatism, was leaning over his, a little lower down the row; Mrs Stuckey’s two youngest children were making dust pies near their own gateway. Domeny’s eyes wandered from one to the other; no one was at home at this busiest time of the busy day, except the women at their washtubs, the old folks, and the babies; and here was he, Jess Domeny, standing idle.

The air was full of the scent of newly-cut hay, there was a ceaseless rumble of distant waggons bumping in and out of the fields; he could even hear the clanking of harness and the distant voices of the men. Every hand was wanted on such a day as this, but Jess’s hands hung limply over the gate.

By and by he passed through, and sauntered in an apparently purposeless manner up to Old’s farm, It was a comfortable house, conspicuous at present for the bright yellow of its new thatch and the glowing masses of crimson phlox now in full flower. On his way thither he passed the field where hay-making was still in full swing; Mr Old himself was plying a rake. He looked up as Jess paused uncertainly on the other side of the hedge.

“Ye be hard at it still, I see, sir,” hazarded Jess.

“Ees, hard at it,” responded the farmer, cheerfully.

“’Tis to be ’oped as you wont upset yourself,” said Jess hesitatingly; he was anxious to ingratiate himself, but had no desire to bestow a further mead of service gratis.

“I d’ ’low it do do I good,” returned Old. “There, a man do never know how much he can do till he tries. I’stead o’ findin’ myself a man shart, I’m reg’lar vexed to think how long I’ve a-kept a man too many.”

Jess echoed his laugh in a half-hearted way, and then, finding Mr Old’s jocular humour a trifle trying, strolled on towards the farmhouse proper. Here all was cheerful bustle. Jenny Old was hanging out a basketful of linen on the clothes-line which reached from the corner of the house to the gnarled apple-tree; Polly, who was not so strong as her sister, was sitting in the sunshine with a pile of garments in need of mending; young Bill Hopkins was staggering across the yard carrying a huge bucket of pig-wash. At the sight Jess’s interest quickened, and at the same time he was conscious of a spasm of active jealousy. It had been his office to attend to the pigs, and he had ever taken pride and pleasure in every detail connected with his charges, from the moment when they first ran squeaking about the yard till they became bacon.

“Be the new litter come yet?” he enquired in as casual a tone as he could assume.

“Lard, yes! Never see’d a finer lot—eleven they be wi’out countin’ the littlest what did die last night. But ’twarn’t worth rearing anyway.”

“I’d ha’ reared it though,” said Jess. “What be bringin’ the sow?”

“Oh, he be gettin’ on nicely. He’ll do all right on the usual stuff.”

“He did ought to have a meal drink,” said Jess firmly.

“Haw, haw! You be terr’ble free wi’ your drinks!” said Bill, slyly.

Polly Old tittered at the sally, and Jenny, catching the sound of mirth, uplifted her shrill voice to enquire the cause. Bill repeated the joke with a guffaw so loud that it brought out Mrs Old from the house, with soapy hands and an enquiring face. She too laughed on hearing of Bill’s jest.

“Ah, ye may all laugh,” cried Jess passionately. “But it b’ain’t no laughin’ matter to I. Ye think ye may cheek me now, Bill Hopkins, because I be down in the world, but I tell ’ee, Mrs Old, if I did sp’ake a word about the sow ’tis because I—I—well there! I don’t like to see the poor beast punished for want o’ proper care.”

Mrs Old stopped laughing.

“Ye was always a careful man, an’ very knowledgeable about pigs,” she observed, thoughtfully.

Jess, encouraged by these words of commendation, proceeded to lay down certain rules of diet appropriate to lady pigs, and Mrs Old listened in silence, nodding now and then.

At the conclusion of his harangue she ordered Bill sharply to go back for the barley-meal, and desired her daughters to give over gigglin’ and glenin’ and get on wi’ their work; then, meditatively wiping her hands on her apron, she strolled towards Domeny.

“’Tis a pity, Jess, ye don’t have so much sense for yourself as ye do have for the dumb beasts. B’ain’t ye tired o’ bein’ on strike?”

Jess looked round him cautiously, and then back at her shrewd, kindly face.

“Well, mum,” he said, with the faintest dawning of a sheepish grin upon his face, “I won’t say but what—well, I don’t know.”

“I’ve been a-talkin’ for your missus,” continued Mrs Old.

“Oh, and have ye, ma’am?” said Jess doubtfully.

“Ees,” said Mrs Collins. “I d’ ’low _she’s_ tired of it poor soul, if you b’ain’t.”

“Well, ma’am,” said Jess, “it do seem as if I’d ha’ done better to ha’ left measter alone.”

“It do look like it,” agreed Mrs Old, with twinkling eyes.