"None. And we pay off instantly any one who thinks differently."
"There's no excuse?"
Angus shook his head.
"None whatever. If a man's ill we lay him off—until he's better. But they never are ill. They haven't time."
Monica surveyed the Scot with interest. Her husband's opinion of him carried good weight.
"You run this place with a somewhat steely rule," she said. "These men are so many machines, the horses, too. Each has to produce so much work. The work you set for them."
Angus's eyes were turned reflectively upon the horizon.
"You're thinking I'm a hard man to work for," he said. "Maybe I am." He glanced back at the miles of wheat, and Monica thought she detected something almost soft in the expression of his eyes. "Yes," he went on, "they're machines of sorts. But the work any man on this farm has to do is work I can do—have done, both in quantity and kind. As for the horses, I'm thinking of building a smaller sick barn. The one we've got is a waste of valuable room, it's so rarely used." He shook his head. "There's just one way to run a big farm, Mrs. Hendrie. It's the hardest work I know, and the boss has got to work just as hard as the least paid 'choreman.'"
"I think—I feel that," Monica agreed cordially. "The work must be done in season. And it's man's work."
Angus calmed his restive horse.