At noon, when toil gladly made way for dinner, they all sat down among the stooks to eat and drink—all except Grizzie, who, appropriating an oatcake the food she and Aggie had a right to between them, carried it home, and laid the greater part aside. Cosmo ate and drank with the rest of the labourers, and enjoyed the homely repast as much as any of them. By the time the meal was over, Aggie had arrived to take Grizzie’s place.
It was a sultry afternoon; and what with the heat and the annoyance of the morning from Grizzie’s tongue and her talk concerning Agnes, the scythe hung heavy in Cosmo’s hands, nor had Aggie to work her hardest to keep up with him. But she was careful to maintain her proper distance from him, for she knew that the least suspicion of relaxing effort would set him off like a thrashing machine. He led the field, nevertheless, at fair speed; his fellow labourers were content; and the bailiff made no remark. But he was so silent, and prolonged silence was so unusual between them, that Aggie was disquieted.
“Are ye no weel, Cosmo?” she asked.
“Weel eneuch, Aggie,” he answered. “What gars ye speir?”
“Ye’re haudin’ yer tongue sae sair.—And,” she added, for she caught sight of the bailiff approaching, “ye hae lost the last inch or twa o’ yer stroke.”
“I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it as we gang hame,” he answered, swinging his scythe in the arc of a larger circle.
The bailiff came up.
“Dinna warstle yersel’ to deith, Aggie,” he said.
“I maun haud up wi’ my man,” she replied.
“He’s a het man at the scythe—ower het! He’ll be fit for naething or the week be oot. He canna haud on at this rate!”