ONE OF THE NEW VOTERS. 105 



tip and turning white. Heat has gone down into the 

 cracks of the ground ; the bar of the stile is so dry 

 and powdery in the crevices that if a reaper chanced 

 to drop a match on it there would seem risk of fire. 

 The still atmosphere is laden with heat, and does not 

 move in the corner of the field between the bushes. 



Roger the reaper smoked out his tobacco ; the 

 children played round and watched for scraps of food ; 

 the women complained of the heat ; the men said 

 nothing. It is seldom that a labourer grumbles much 

 at the weather, except as interfering with his work. 

 Let the heat increase, so it would only keep fine. 

 The fire in the sky meant money. Work went on 

 again ; Roger had now to go to another field to pitch 

 that is, help to load the waggon ; as a young man, 

 that was one of the jobs allotted to him. This was 

 the reverse. Instead of stooping he had now to strain 

 himself upright and lift sheaves over his head. His 

 stomach empty of everything but small ale did not 

 like this any more than his back had liked the other ; 

 but those who work for bare food must not question 

 their employment. Heavily the day drove on ; there 

 was more beer, and again more beer, because it was 

 desired to clear some fields that evening. Mono- 

 tonously pitching the sheaves, Eoger laboured by the 

 waggon till the last had been loaded till the moon 

 was shining. His brazen forehead was unbound now ; 

 in spite of the beer the work and the perspiration had 

 driven off the aching. He was weary but well. Nor 

 had he been dull during the day ; he had talked and 

 joked cumbrously in labourers' fashion with his 

 fellows. His aches, his empty stomach, his labour, 



