Henry Barefoot was a placid man, as long as the rag came to him exactly when he wanted it. Under ordinary circumstances he accomplished his part in the great machine as obscurely as any invisible wheel, or steam pipe. But if the women delayed, or he was “hung up,” as he put it, then his chivalry broke down and he swore long and loud at those who interfered with his activities. At such times he became tragic and exceedingly profane. He expanded and broke into uncouth gestures and simian scowls. He appealed to Heaven in these great moments and asked of the sky why women had been created. Sometimes his sister, Alice, was sent for from the thresher to pacify him, and when she failed, Lydia Trivett, at the sound of Henry’s roaring in the boiler-house, would slip from her lattice and strive to calm his fury.
The women had fled before him at one of these explosions and Alice having also failed, approached Mrs. Trivett and begged her to intervene.
She went, to find Mr. Barefoot standing with steam about him and his hand lifted to the corrugated iron roof above his grey head.
“Oh, my God, my God!” he said. “What have I done to be the prey of a lot of worthless females—”
“Your rag’s waiting, Henry,” interrupted Lydia.
“His rag’s out, I should think,” said a woman from behind Lydia. “An evil-speaking toad—always blasting us. And how can we help it?”
“You know very well, Henry, there must be a hitch sometimes with such a lot of dirty rag,” explained Lydia. “We’ve all got to keep going, and it’s no more good or sense cussing us than it is for them in the engine house to cuss you. And men wouldn’t do this work half as well as women, as you’d very soon find if we were gone. And it’s a very ill-convenient thing for you to lose your temper, and nobody will be sorrier than you in an hour’s time.”
As the rag now awaited him, Henry subsided.
“It’s a plot against me,” he said, “and I’ve no quarrel with you, Lydia. It ain’t your department. It’s they baggering women at the magnet, and they want for me to get the sack as I very well know. But they’ll get fired themselves—every trollop of ’em—afore I shall.”
“They don’t want you to get fired. Why should they? What have you done to them? Why, you haven’t even asked one of ’em to marry you,” said Lydia.