The man had slowly lifted himself to something like his full height, which was enormous. So were his rounded shoulders and his long hairy arms and hands. So was his face, with its huge hook-nose and its mouthful of yellow teeth. These were showing in an insolent yet savage grin, when a good thing happened at a very good time.
A bell sounded, and someone sang out, "Smoke-oh!"
Instantly many pairs of shears were dropped; in the ensuing two minutes the rest followed, as each man finished the sheep he was engaged on when the bell rang. Thus the swish and tinkle of the shears changed swiftly to a hum of conversation mingled with deep-drawn sighs. And this stopped suddenly, miraculously, as the shed opened its eyes and ears to the scene going forward between its notorious ringer and Naomi Pryse, the owner of the run.
In another moment men with pipes in their hands and sweat on their brows were edging toward the pair from right and left.
"Your name, I think, is Simons?" Naomi was saying, coolly, but so that all who had a mind might hear her. "I have no more to say to you, Simons, except that you will shear properly or go where they like their sheep to have lumps of flesh taken out and lumps of wool left on."
"Since when have you been over the board, miss?" asked Simons, a little more civilly under the eyes of his mates.
"I am not over the board," said Naomi, hotly, "but I am over the man who is."
She received instant cause to regret this speech.
"We wish you was!" cried two or three. "You wouldn't make a blooming mull of things, you wouldn't!"