"Ay. You'd better damp down the fire in yon engine o' your'n. We don't want no sparks flying about with all harvest in. There's not enough water i' t' pond to drown a cat in."
They were covering the machine now with tarpaulin, fastening everything snugly down for its sabbath's vigil. Coast stood watching them, and noticing how the stacks stood out in firm yellow blocks against the dark background of the wold. The solidarity of their bulging contour depressed him. Of what use was it to attack people who were shielded from poverty and failure by this power of possession? The backwash of progress beat in vain against the solid wall of property that sheltered them. He wondered no longer at the loud voiced communists whom he once condemned as extremists, because they would rob the rich of this destructive potency of wealth. That fellow Rossitur had been wrong as usual, when he declared that, after their taste of independence and co-operation during the strike, the men of Anderby would never be the same again. It would be just the same, the same patronage and injustice, the same complacent prosperity of people like the Robsons, the same heart-breaking rebellion of people like himself. The square grey house behind the sycamore-trees, the close packed sheaves of wheat and barley, the farm buildings astir with the sounds of pigs and horses and cattle, all these testified to the impotence of progress. Oh, the Robsons were safe!
Mike O'Flynn appeared from the stackyard gate that led to the garden of the Wold Farm. He strolled up to the little group where Foreman and the "machine man" discussed the utility of raising bags of corn by a mechanical invention, instead of swinging them over one's shoulder as in the olden days.
"What's that fellow Rossitur doing up at the house door?"
Foreman turned. "Nay, Mike, it beats me, but I expect he's gone to see Mrs. Robson."
"Mrs. Robson went into Hardrascliffe wi't t' maister this after'," said Shepherd Dawson.
"Well, 'tis no good he's after, anyway, or he'd have gone with Hunting this morning—bad cess to him! And it's glad I am that Mrs. Robson was not at home. After the trouble he's given her she'll not be wanting him again hanging round."
"You off in tid' town to-night, Mike?" asked Ezra, who found Mike's frequent tirades on the subject of David Rossitur somewhat tedious.
"Now, what should I be doing buying squeakers on the sands and going to Pictures? There's a corner seat in the Flying Fox that I'd part with for no man."
The men strolled off. The children still lingered to gaze upon the fascinating complexity of the great machine, and watch the smoke die from its funnel. Coast found that Waite was standing beside him leaning over the gateway. There was still the tiresome business of the field and old Mrs. Armstrong to be faced. He must get rid of Waite and go on with his work.