“So like, that it is nearly incredible,” said Philip. “We won’t talk about it.”
“I am so sorry,” cried Phyllis hastily. “Forgive me, Philip.”
“See! they are carrying the corn over there. Let us go and see them.”
At the gate of the field Pickett came up to them, beaming.
“Lucky weather for me, sir,” he remarked. “Last year I didn’t get the corn up till the first week in September, and it was none too dry, and I had to thresh direct from the shocks, for I hadn’t straw to thatch the ricks, or for bedding. Of course, there were advantages. The labor of building ricks and undoing them all again was saved. But against that, in threshing from the shocks the grain is a bit soft and juicy. If put in heaps it is apt to heat and ferment. There’s a pile of things to weigh with one another, sir. How is the Colonel, miss?”
“Very well, thank you,” replied Phyllis, a little annoyed to be recognized, though it ought certainly not to have been any surprise, for Colonel Lane and his daughter were old residents at Hastings, and very well-known figures indeed.
“If Miss Lane would like to look round the farm, Mr. Barrimore, you are welcome to go where you like. I’m a bit too busy to show the young lady round myself, or I should be proud. The horses—that is, some of them—are not working well. I’ve had them up from grass for the harvest; they swell with grass feeding, and the change to oats always upsets them. Well, good-day to you, sir! Good-day to you, miss!”
“What a talker Mr. Pickett is!” exclaimed Phyllis, as they left him.
“Yes, he does talk. He is in the way of being a gossip too,” said Philip; “but he is a very good sort, for all that.”
Mr. Pickett proved Philip’s words to be true when he went home to tea—that is, as to his being a gossip.