His landlord do it at his own expense?  That made him look knowing.  He was evidently certain that it was a trick for raising the rent at the end of the lease, if not before, upon him, whose fathers had been tenants of Alfy Vale even before the Alisons came to Arghouse; and, with the rude obstinacy of his race, he was as uncivil to Harold as he durst in Eustace’s presence.  “He had no mind to have his fields cut up just to sell the young gentleman’s drain-pipes, as wouldn’t go off at them potteries.”

“Well, but all this stuff would be doing much more good upon your fields than here,” Eustace said.  “I—­I really must insist on this farmyard being cleansed.”

“You’ll not find that in the covenant, sir,” said the farmer with a grin.

“But, father,” began the son, a more intelligent-looking man, though with the prevailing sickly tint.

“Hold your tongue, Phil,” said Ogden.  “It’s easy to talk of cleaning out the yard; I’d like to see the gentleman set about it, or you either, for that matter.”

“Would you?” said Harold.  “Then you shall.”

Farmer Ogden gaped.  “I won’t have no strange labourers about the place.”

“No more you shall,” said Harold.  “If your son and I clean out this place with our own hands in the course of a couple of days, putting the manure in any field you may appoint, will you let the drainage plans be carried out without opposition ?”

“It ain’t a bet?” said the farmer; “for my missus’s conscience is against bets.”

“No, certainly not.”

“Nor a trick?” he said, looking from one to another.

“No.  It is to be honest work.  I am a farmer, and know what work is, and have done it too.”

Farmer Ogden, to a certain extent, gave in, and we departed.  His son held the gate open for us, with a keen look at Harold, full of wonder and inquiry.

“You’ll stand by me?” said Harold, lingering with him.

“Yes, sir,” said Phil Ogden; “but I doubt if we can do it.  Father says it is a week’s work for five men, if you could get them to do it.”

“Never fear,” said Harold.  “We’ll save your mother’s life yet against her will, and make you all as healthy as if you’d been born in New South Wales.”

This was Friday, and Phil had an engagement on the Monday, so that Tuesday was fixed, much to Eustace’s displeasure, for he did not like Harold’s condescending to work which labourers would hardly undertake; and besides, he would make his hands, if not himself, absolutely unfit for the entertainment on Thursday.  On which Harold asked if there were no such thing as water.  Eustace implored him to give it up and send half-a-dozen unemployed men, but to this he answered, “I should be ashamed.”

And when we went home he rode on into Mycening, to see about his equipment, he said, setting Eustace despairing, lest he, after all, meant to avoid the London tailor, and to patronise Mycening; but the equipment turned out to be a great smock-frock.  And something very different came home with him—­namely, a little dainty flower-pot and pan, with an Etruscan pattern, the very best things that had been turned out of the pottery, adorned with a design in black and white, representing a charming little Greek nymph watering her flowers.