A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very heartily.  They set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn sounded once more for dinner.  At intervals the measurer went his round from bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own book and then in the hopper’s the number of bushels picked.  As each bin was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them and put on the waggon.  Athelny came back now and then with stories of how much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured his family to beat her:  he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour.  His chief amusement in it, however, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he was excessively proud.  He spent much time manicuring them.  He told Philip, as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had always slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness.  The hand that wrung the throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and exquisite as a woman’s; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction.  When he grew tired of this he rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of art and literature.  In the afternoon it grew very hot.  Work did not proceed so actively and conversation halted.  The incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to desultory remarks.  Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally’s upper lip, and as she worked her lips were slightly parted.  She was like a rosebud bursting into flower.

Calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house.  Sometimes it was filled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could be dried during the night.  Then work was stopped.  But generally the last measuring of the day began at five.  As each company had its bin measured it gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over, sauntered out of the garden.  The women went back to the huts to clean up and prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the road to the public-house.  A glass of beer was very pleasant after the day’s work.

The Athelnys’ bin was the last to be dealt with.  When the measurer came Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms:  she had been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff.

“Now, let’s go to The Jolly Sailor,” said Athelny.  “The rites of the day must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that.”

“Take a jug with you, Athelny,” said his wife, “and bring back a pint and a half for supper.”