The squire had more of it to do than we had, for he had more wheat, and the ugly weather having given place that week to a fresh burst of summer, all we who still had crops on the ground were anxious to take advantage of the unexpected good-fortune. I did not reply; I was thinking how to begin what I had to say, and I took my knife out of my pocket, and stooped to cut a tall teasel that was turning brown on the dike-side, and a spray of ruddy dock that grew beside it.
"The weather is splendid now for harvesting," said I, finding the squire did not speak again, "and Mr. Harrod says the crop of wheat will be finer than he once thought."
"Why shouldn't he have thought it would be fine?" grumbled the squire, looking in the direction where our bailiff stood in the wheat-field talking to the bailiff from the Manor. "We have rarely had such a hot summer."
The field was hot and golden, the hill behind cool and dark.
I pulled one of the heads of dock to pieces in my hand, and said, "He says that a hot early summer doesn't always do good; it sucks the juices out while the straw is milky, and impoverishes the strength of the plant."
The squire laughed, and I grew scarlet with vexation.
"Why, you'll be quite a farmer under Harrod's auspices," he said. "You were nearly fit to manage the farm before he came, and I'm sure you'll soon be able to turn him off."
"No, indeed," said I, trying to speak quietly. "I'm only just beginning to learn that I know nothing."
"Ah! Well, they say that's the first step to growing clever," he replied. "And, joking apart, of course Harrod's a very able fellow, and can teach us both a lot of things, I've no doubt, though he does have queer notions at times, I'm bound to say. He is a business man, and no mistake."
"Of course Mr. Harrod is a good man of business," said I, haughtily. "We all know that. That's why you recommended him to father, I suppose."