This decides him at once.  He resolves to have all the hay carted that he can, and the remainder put up into haycocks.  The men grumble when they hear it; perhaps a year ago they would have openly mutinied, and refused to work beyond the usual hour.  But, though wages are still high, the labourers feel that they are not so much the masters as they were—­they grumble, but obey.  The haycocks are put up, and the rick-cloth unfolded over the partly made rick.  Farmer George himself sees to it that the cloth does not touch the rick at the edges, or the rain, if it comes, will go through instead of shooting off, and that the ropes are taut and firmly belayed.  His caution is justified in the night by a violent thunderstorm, and in the morning it is raining steadily.

It rains again on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  Thursday it does not rain, but the hedges are wet, the ground is soaked, the grass hung with raindrops, the sky heavy with masses of drifting cloud.  The hay cannot be touched; it must lie a day till sufficiently dry.  Friday is more hopeful.  He walks out into the fields, and kicks a haycock half over.  The hay is still wet, but he congratulates himself that not much damage is done.  Saturday Is warm and fine—­work goes on again.  But Sunday is near.  Sunday is fiery hot.  Monday, the rain pours down with tropical vehemence.

Thus the monotonous, heart-breaking days go by and lengthen into weeks, and the weeks extend into months.  The wheat is turning colour, and still the hay lies about, and the farmer has ceased even to tap the barometer.  Those fields that are not cut are brown as brown can be—­the grass has seeded and is over ripe.  The labourers come every day, and some trifling job is found for them—­the garden path is weeded, the nettles cut, and such little matters done.  Their wages are paid every week in silver and gold—­harvest wages, for which no stroke of harvest work has been done.  He must keep them on, because any day the weather may brighten, and then they will be wanted.  But the weather does not brighten, and the drain of ready cash continues.  Besides the men, the mowing machine is idle in the shed.  Even if the rain ceases, the crops are so laid that it is doubtful if it can be employed.  The horse-rake is idle, the elevator is idle, the haymaking machine is idle, and these represent capital, if not to a large amount.  He notes the price of hay at the market.  For months past it has been low—­so low that it has hardly paid him to sell that portion of old hay which he felt he could spare.  From October of last year to June of this [1879] the price remained about the same.  It is now rising, but he has no more old hay to part with, and the new is not yet made.  He has to bear in mind that his herd of cows has to be kept in high feed all the winter, to supply an unvarying quantity of milk to the London purchaser.