“Are they ever going back onto the land?”

“They tark about it.  I read my newspaper reg’lar.  In some places I see they’re makin’ unions.  That an’t no good.”

“Why?”

The old man smiled again.

“Why!  Think of it!  The land’s different to anythin’ else—­that’s why!  Different work, different hours, four men’s work to-day and one’s to-morrow.  Work land wi’ unions, same as they’ve got in this ’ere factory, wi’ their eight hours an’ their do this an’ don’ do that?  No!  You’ve got no weather in factories, an’ such-like.  On the land ’tes a matter o’ weather.  On the land a man must be ready for anythin’ at any time; you can’t work it no other way.  ‘Tes along o’ God’s comin’ into it; an’ no use pullin’ this way an’ that.  Union says to me:  You mustn’t work after hours.  Hoh!  I’ve ‘ad to set up all night wi’ ship an’ cattle hundreds o’ times, an’ no extra for it.  ’Tes not that way they’ll do any good to keep people on the land.  Oh, no!”

“How, then?”

“Well, you’ll want new laws, o’ course, to prevent farmers an’ landowners takin’ their advantage; you want laws to build new cottages; but mainly ’tes a case of hands together; can’t be no other—­the land’s so ticklish.  If ’tesn’t hands together, ’tes nothing.  I ’ad a master once that was never content so long’s we wasn’t content.  That farm was better worked than any in the parish.”

“Yes, but the difficulty is to get masters that can see the other side; a man doesn’t care much to look at home.”

The old man’s dark eyes twinkled.

‘No; an’ when ’e does, ’tes generally to say:  ‘Lord, an’t I right, an’ an’t they wrong, just?’ That’s powerful customary!”

“It is,” said Felix; “God bless us all!”

“Ah!  You may well say that, sir; an’ we want it, too.  A bit more wages wouldn’t come amiss, neither.  An’ a bit more freedom; ’tes a man’s liberty ’e prizes as well as money.”

“Did you hear about this arson case?”

The old man cast a glance this way and that before he answered in a lower voice: 

“They say ’e was put out of his cottage.  I’ve seen men put out for votin’ Liberal; I’ve seen ’em put out for free-thinkin’; all sorts o’ things I seen em put out for.  ’Tes that makes the bad blood.  A man wants to call ’is soul ‘is own, when all’s said an’ done.  An’ ’e can’t, not in th’ old country, unless ’e’s got the dibs.”

“And yet you never thought of emigrating?”

“Thart of it—­ah! thart of it hundreds o’ times; but some’ow cudden never bring mysel’ to the scratch o’ not seein’ th’ Beacon any more.  I can just see it from ‘ere, you know.  But there’s not so many like me, an’ gettin’ fewer every day.”

“Yes,” murmured Felix, “that I believe.”

“’Tes a ‘and-made piece o’ goods—­the land!  You has to be fond of it, same as of your missis and yer chillen.  These poor pitiful fellows that’s workin’ in this factory, makin’ these here Colonial ploughs—­union’s all right for them—­’tes all mechanical; but a man on the land, ’e’s got to put the land first, whether ’tes his own or some one else’s, or he’ll never do no good; might as well go for a postman, any day.  I’m keepin’ of you, though, with my tattle!”