On the morning following the affair of Nahum Noakes's bumps Mr. Trenchard was walking along the edge of one of his fields, looking disconsolately at the drooping upper-growth of the carrots. Eves and Templeton were hoeing some little distance away.
"Here's old Noakes," said Eves, suddenly. "Wonder if he's come to grouse about yesterday?"
Mr. Noakes, dressed as usual in his rusty frock-coat, but wearing a new straw slouch hat—his old one had not survived its bath of soot—was shambling up the field to meet the farmer.
"Marnen, neighbour Trenchard," he said.
"Marnen, Mr. Noakes," returned the farmer, with the air of timidity that marked all his intercourse with his neighbour. The two men stood together, Noakes smug and self-satisfied, Trenchard downcast and almost humble.
"It do seem you'd be the better for a drop of rain," Noakes went on. "The ground be dust dry. Them there carrots baint no good."
"True; I'm afeared 'twill be a bad year wi' me."
"Well, we're in the hands of Them above," said Noakes, smiling and rubbing his hands slowly together. "The old ancient men of Egypt had their lean years and their years of plenty; we can't look for no different in these here end o' the world times."
"Ah, Mr. Noakes, I don't gainsay 'ee, but 'tud hev made all the difference to me, a good moist season. I be afeard I shall have to axe 'ee——"
"Not a word, neighbour. Sufficient unto the day, you know. Not but what 'tis a misfortune to 'ee, but things may take a turn."