‘And what did he say?’
‘Oh, he gave me a lot of good advice.’
‘Did you take it?’ she demanded, smiling.
‘Well, you see if we were to take all the good advice that is offered us, there would be no enterprise in the world.’
‘I am going to show you one man who will take good advice.’
‘Who is that?’
‘There he is speaking to uncle.’
‘Why, that is Caleb Kersey. I never heard of him taking advice, as he is too much occupied in giving it; and a nice mess he is making of the harvest at our place.’
‘That is what I am going to see him about. I promised your father to make some arrangement with him; but he has been away in Norfolk, and I have had no opportunity of speaking to him until now.’
This Caleb Kersey’s name had suddenly become known throughout the agricultural district of the country—to the labourers as that of their champion; to the farmers as that of their bane. He was a man of short stature and muscular frame; bushy black hair; square forehead and chin; prominent nose and piercing gray eyes. When in repose or speaking to his comrades, his expression was one of earnest thoughtfulness; but it became somewhat sulky when he was addressing his superiors, and fierce with enthusiasm when haranguing a crowd.