“Thank you,” Jernyngham rejoined punctiliously. “I suppose it was the strain of the past few weeks that tried me, and perhaps I have been doing too much, traveling backward and forward between here and the muskeg.” Then with an effort he banished his painful thoughts and smiled. “I wonder how many years it is since I spent an afternoon in a harvest field! I’ll confess that I find much to interest me.”
Gertrude laid down her book and glanced about. She was of a practical disposition and almost devoid of artistic susceptibilities, but the richness and color of the scene impressed her. Far away in front ran the long ranks of sheaves, gleaming in the sunshine amid the golden stubble which was flecked by their deep-blue shadows. The air was cooling, but the light was brilliant and the standing wheat was picked out with tints of burnished copper. By comparison with it, the oat stocks shone pale and silvery. Round the edge of the grain moved the binders, clashing and tinkling musically, while their whirling arms flashed in the sunlight.
Prescott, lightly clad, drove the foremost machine. The fine modeling of his lean, muscular figure was effectively displayed; his uncovered arms and face were the color of the soil. Seated behind the big horses, he looked wonderfully virile. The man seemed filled with primitive vigor; he was a type that was new to Gertrude Jernyngham.
“Our host,” remarked her father, “strikes one as tireless; though I’m inclined to think that during harvest everybody here works at a higher tension than would be borne at home. Their methods are rather wasteful—this tall stubble, for instance, continuous cereal crops, except for the short summer fallow—but they’re no doubt adapted to the needs of the country. Having some experience in these matters, I should say this farm was excellently managed.”
In place of answering, Gertrude watched the rancher. The physical perfection of the man had an effect on her, though she was essentially prudish.
“I ought to drive in to the settlement and send off a cablegram, though I expect it will be difficult to get a team,” Jernyngham resumed, returning to his letter. “Cranford wants instructions about a matter of importance that has cropped up since we left.”
“It wouldn’t be wise for you to drive so far,” Gertrude said firmly. “I might go instead; we’ll speak to Mr. Prescott about it this evening.”
Shortly afterward there was a harsh clanking sound and Prescott, pulling up his team, sprang down from the binder. He became busy with hammer and spanner, and in a few minutes the stubble was strewn with pinion wheels, little shafts, and driving-chains. Then, while his guests watched him with growing interest, he put the machine together, started his team and stopped it, and again dismembered the complicated gear. This, as Gertrude realized, was work that needed a certain amount of skill. Finally, when the overtaking binders had stopped near-by, he took out a small shaft and held it up so that the harvesters could see it.
“Journal’s bent; I’ll have to go get a new piece,” he said. “Go ahead with your teams.”
After that he unhitched his horses and was leading them past the place where the Jernynghams sat, when Gertrude spoke to him.