Every morning the sun came up a red ball, quickly drank the dew, and started a quivering excitement in all living things.  In great harvest seasons like that one, the heat, the intense light, and the important work in hand draw people together and make them friendly.  Neighbours helped each other to cope with the burdensome abundance of man-nourishing grain; women and children and old men fell to and did what they could to save and house it.  Even the horses had a more varied and sociable existence than usual, going about from one farm to another to help neighbour horses drag wagons and binders and headers.  They nosed the colts of old friends, ate out of strange mangers, and drank, or refused to drink, out of strange water-troughs.  Decrepit horses that lived on a pension, like the Wheelers’ stiff-legged Molly and Leonard Dawson’s Billy with the heaves—­his asthmatic cough could be heard for a quarter of a mile—­were pressed into service now.  It was wonderful, too, how well these invalided beasts managed to keep up with the strong young mares and geldings; they bent their willing heads and pulled as if the chafing of the collar on their necks was sweet to them.

The sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and took its due from all animal energy.  When it flung wide its cloak and stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left behind it a spent and exhausted world.  Horses and men and women grew thin, seethed all day in their own sweat.  After supper they dropped over and slept anywhere at all, until the red dawn broke clear in the east again, like the fanfare of trumpets, and nerves and muscles began to quiver with the solar heat.

For several weeks Claude did not have time to read the newspapers; they lay about the house in bundles, unopened, for Nat Wheeler was in the field now, working like a giant.  Almost every evening Claude ran down to the mill to see Enid for a few minutes; he did not get out of his car, and she sat on the old stile, left over from horse-back days, while she chatted with him.  She said frankly that she didn’t like men who had just come out of the harvest field, and Claude did not blame her.  He didn’t like himself very well after his clothes began to dry on him.  But the hour or two between supper and bed was the only time he had to see anybody.  He slept like the heroes of old; sank upon his bed as the thing he desired most on earth, and for a blissful moment felt the sweetness of sleep before it overpowered him.  In the morning, he seemed to hear the shriek of his alarm clock for hours before he could come up from the deep places into which he had plunged.  All sorts of incongruous adventures happened to him between the first buzz of the alarm and the moment when he was enough awake to put out his hand and stop it.  He dreamed, for instance, that it was evening, and he had gone to see Enid as usual.  While she was coming down the path from the house, he discovered that he had no clothes on at all!  Then, with wonderful agility, he jumped over the picket fence into a clump of castor beans, and stood in the dusk, trying to cover himself with the leaves, like Adam in the garden, talking commonplaces to Enid through chattering teeth, afraid lest at any moment she might discover his plight.