Simeon growled. Your upland labourer is a terrible radical in respect of persons, but hopelessly conservative whenever farming operations are in question.
"Cut peäts i' August? Ye mud as weel mak hay at Kersmas: th' back-end o' May, or th' for-end o' June—that's when Simeon Hey leärned to cut an' dry an' stack 'em; nay, ye cannot get ower what is, an' is to be."
"Can't I? Just go and hunt up a spade, Simeon; I saw one in the lathe not long ago—back of the turnip-chopper, if I remember rightly. We'll go this afternoon."
Mid-day dinner over, Simeon slouched along at his master's heels, like a dog that is loth to accompany an indifferent sportsman. Griff took the spade and set to work at the peat-bed. First, he removed a few inches of the top layer of heather stumps and bilberry roots; then he drove the blade straight down, prized out the sod, and so moved along the whole line from left to right, the upturned perpendicular edge and flat back of the spade shaping clean faces to the peats.
"Ye may know nowt about th' time to cut, but ye frame weel at th' cutting," muttered Simeon, with grudging praise, as he picked up the falling peats and spread them out on the heather.
"And the sun will frame well at the drying, if the sweat of my body just now is anything to go by. Why, man, you don't often get a dry heat like this in June."
"Well, I'm noan saying th' peäts willun't dry. What I says is, it isn't nat'ral; an', dry 'em or no, there'll no gooid come on't. They willun't burn like good Chirstian peäts what's been led i' June."
But Griff only laughed, and shed his waistcoat, and went on with the cutting. The crack-crack of guns came to their ears from over Cranshaw way.
"Part shooiting about," dropped Simeon.
"Yes, that must be some of the Frender's Folly party. How far does Captain Laverack's shooting come, Simeon?"