"Well, fetch him along then, for I want a wash up, and a drop of supper at the Flying Fox."
Waite and Coast stood silently by the gate, while a little crowd gathered to watch the delicate operation of manœuvring the engine and its appendages into the stackyard. Foreman emerged from the Hind's house, already attired in his Sunday best. The "thrashing man" was an old friend and ally.
"Come on, come in with you," called Foreman. "I'm taking missus in tid Hardrascliffe to-night for a bit o' spree like after harvest, and she's had 'er best hat on for last hour waiting o' you. We've got light cart yoked up an' all."
"Oh, git away with you then. I'll bring in the Rolls-Royce, and drop her gently along side one o' them there stacks for a bit o' rest after the journey like. Whoa there! Back there!"
His hand on the wheel turned with amazing rapidity. The engine snorted and backed, then slowly lumbered towards the gateway, leaving the elevator in the road. There was much backing and twisting, much shouting of small boys and coupling and uncoupling of the thrashing-machine, but eventually it was through, and the engine returned for the derelict in the road.
"You've got a good yardful," remarked the mechanic. "How did you come on wi' the strike?"
"Strike? We didn't have no strike—just a few fond chaps taking a holiday through harvest like."
"Oh, ay. You've got some bonny wheat here."
"Ay—and yon barley, but the thatching's bad. We missed owd Deane for that. The wet'll get in any day now. That's why maister's all on to have it thrashed an' out of way before weather breaks."
"It's fine enough now—happen a bit o' wind before morning."