THE FULL CORN 389 



hugged to myself the consolation that the last act of 

 1908 would soon be over. In the morning the rain 

 poured down in torrents and for twenty-four hours 

 on end. 



It hadn't been too profitable a threshing season 

 for the men on the gangs. Wages are high, but when 

 they cannot work they are not paid, and also when 

 they are not working they are liable to discontent. 

 The weather was growing cold, the men up for the 

 harvest job from the east were anxious to get home, 

 and inclined to kick at the smallest delay. I heard 

 their sentiments freely expressed through Sunday, 

 and knew that Guy Mazey would have his work 

 cut out to hold them over a prolonged wait, but I 

 was absolutely determined that not one bushel of 

 my grain should be threshed until it was bone-dry. 

 On the stubble and breaking crops the wheat was 

 of fine grade, and perfectly clean and free from any 

 kind of weed, but there was a tiny touch of smut 

 here and there. To have threshed it on the finest 

 shade of the damp side would have been a grave 

 risk of tagged grain. I knew Guy Mazey was far 

 too good a farmer to thresh before grain was 

 thoroughly dry as a rule, but it would take an iron 

 will to hold his gang together, and he couldn't 

 thresh without his men. 



Mabel rode over on Monday morning, she had 

 promised to help me over my household chores. 



" But it is utterly impossible to thresh to-day," 

 I said to her as we watched the soaked land steaming 

 in the sun. 



" I guess they'll be able to start up at noon," 

 she said. " Father will be round by then all right." 



I walked out to the granary directly I saw that 



