Long before they had come in sight of Cheadle’s farm they heard a low humming sound like the music of a jew’s harp, and as they drew nearer the rattle and clanking which formed a deafening accompaniment.
Then they saw a stream of smoke curling over the trees, and on reaching the yard found themselves close upon the thrashing machine itself.
A huge machine with revolving wheels and high narrow funnel and a great iron belly, out of which rolled sheaves of straw.
These the men and women standing by caught on their pitchforks and piled into a rick.
“What do ee’ think of it?” cried Ashbrook. “You don’t see that sort of thing every day—do’ ee?”
“No, I can’t say that I ever did see one before—it’s a wonderful sight. Do you use it on your farm?”
“Not I,” replied the farmer, contemptuously. “I’m one of the old-fashioned sort, and stick to flail and barn door. My men hold to me in the summer when men are gold—so I keep work for them in the winter when work is scarce, and the best on ’em are glad of a job just to keep the pot boiling.”
“Ah, and it’s a very proper course to adopt. These machines must be bad things for the labourers?”
“Yes, I ’spose they are, but it don’t so much matter as far as the thrashing goes. Ye see farmers were drove to hire or buy these ingins—why? Because they couldn’t get the thrashing done without. The men round here would sooner be thrashed than thrash any day. Barring my own men, you won’t find three flails for miles around. Thrashing indeed! Why if everyone hereabouts had to thrash his own corn, there’s many as ’ud have to eat their’n in the straw.”
“And how about reaping machines?” said Mr. Fortescue.