"Am on my round. Can't come," he shouted.
"But you must," explained the voice.
He turned so quickly that he almost knocked me over. "Bother and
confound them all!" he said. "Why don't they keep to the time-table?
There's no system in this place. That is what ruins farming--want of
system."
He went on grumbling as he walked. I followed him. Halfway across
the field we met the owner of the voice. She was a pleasant-looking
lass, not exactly pretty--not the sort of girl one turns to look at
in a crowd--yet, having seen her, it was agreeable to continue
looking at her. St. Leonard introduced me to her as his eldest
daughter, Janie, and explained to her that behind the study door, if
only she would take the trouble to look, she would find a time-table
-
"According to which," replied Miss Janie, with a smile, "you ought at
the present moment to be in the rick-yard, which is just where I want
you."
"What time is it?" he asked, feeling his waistcoat for a watch that
appeared not to be there.
"Quarter to eleven," I told him.
He took his head between his hands. "Good God!" he cried, "you don't
say that!"
The new binder, Miss Janie told us, had just arrived. She was
anxious her father should see it was in working order before the men
went back. "Otherwise," so she argued, "old Wilkins will persist it
was all right when he delivered it, and we shall have no remedy."
We turned towards the house.
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