"The glass is going down," he said. "And I heard thunder beyond the town. I'll tell you what. I believe it'll be a race between a big storm—and us getting in that field of hay!"
Little Mrs. Price lifted her tiny, dignified face as she sat at table.
"We'll have to do it then," said she. "Everybody will help."
"Everybody it'll have to be," declared Mr. Price, dispatching his dinner full speed ahead. "Everybody on the farm. And I'll see if some of the wounded boys can take a hand. And you get every one of the workmen's wives, too. Tell them to leave their washing, leave their baking, bring their babies to the corner of the field and all come!"
Off went Mrs. Price to mobilize these volunteers. Out we dashed—the Regulars.
It was indeed all hands to the pumps—that breathless afternoon.
The big field seemed to hold half Careg; farm hands, old men, boys in hospital blue, rosy-faced women in sun-bonnets—these last were the workmen's wives whom Mrs. Price had fetched. They worked like niggers. And as we toiled the air grew more breathless; the pale mauve of the sky deepened to an angry indigo, and far away we heard a muttering of thunder. The storm was gathering slowly.
I felt myself becoming part of a regiment, part of a willing machine that walked quickly down the rows raking the fragrant swathes.
Should we do it? Should we get in that hay in time, beat the on-rolling field-grey clouds that were coming up, massed like German divisions?
It was exciting. It was for the moment the most important thing in the world that that field should be cleared before the thunder-rain came on to spoil all.