In the meantime Derek and Sheila were going their round on bicycles, to stiffen the backs of the laborers.  They had hunted lately, always in a couple, desiring no complications, having decided that it was less likely to provoke definite assault and opposition from the farmers.  To their mother was assigned all correspondence; to themselves the verbal exhortations, the personal touch.  It was past noon, and they were already returning, when they came on the char-a-bancs containing the head of the strike-breaking column.  The two vehicles were drawn up opposite the gate leading to Marrow Farm, and the agent was detaching the four men destined to that locality, with their camping-gear.  By the open gate the farmer stood eying his new material askance.  Dejected enough creatures they looked—­poor devils picked up at ten pound the dozen, who, by the mingled apathy and sheepish amusement on their faces, might never have seen a pitchfork, or smelled a field of clover, in their lives.

The two young Freelands rode slowly past; the boy’s face scornfully drawn back into itself; the girl’s flaming scarlet.

“Don’t take notice,” Derek said; “we’ll soon stop that.”

And they had gone another mile before he added: 

“We’ve got to make our round again; that’s all.”

The words of Mr. Pogram, ‘You have influence, young man,’ were just.  There was about Derek the sort of quality that belongs to the good regimental officer; men followed and asked themselves why the devil they had, afterward.  And if it be said that no worse leader than a fiery young fool can be desired for any movement, it may also be said that without youth and fire and folly there is usually no movement at all.

Late in the afternoon they returned home, dead beat.  That evening the farmers and their wives milked the cows, tended the horses, did everything that must be done, not without curses.  And next morning the men, with Gaunt and a big, dark fellow, called Tulley, for spokesmen, again proffered their demand.  The agent took counsel with Malloring by wire.  His answer, “Concede nothing,” was communicated to the men in the afternoon, and received by Gaunt with the remark:  “I thart we should be hearin’ that.  Please to thank Sir Gerald.  The men concedes their gratitood.” . . .

That night it began to rain.  Nedda, waking, could hear the heavy drops pattering on the sweetbrier and clematis thatching her open window.  The scent of rain-cooled leaves came in drifts, and it seemed a shame to sleep.  She got up; put on her dressing-gown, and went to thrust her nose into that bath of dripping sweetness.  Dark as the clouds had made the night, there was still the faint light of a moon somewhere behind.  The leaves of the fruit-trees joined in the long, gentle hissing, and now and again rustled and sighed sharply; a cock somewhere, as by accident, let off a single crow.  There were no stars.  All was dark and soft as velvet.