When we decided that the hops were ready to be cooled down, to prevent
breaking when being taken off the drying floor, all doors, windows,
and ventilators were thrown open and the fire banked up, and, while
they were cooling, he went to neighbouring cottages to rouse the men
who came nightly to unload and reload the kiln, and then I could
retire to bed.
Tom was devoted to duty, and was so successful as a hop-drier that he
soon became capable of managing two more kilns in the same building,
which I enlarged as I gradually increased my acreage. In a good season
he would often have L100 worth of hops through his hands in the
twenty-four hours, sometimes more. He was the only man I ever employed
at this particular work, and throughout those years he turned out hops
to the value of nearly L30,000 without a single mishap or spoiled
kiln-load--a better proof of his devotion to duty than anything else I
could say.
He was a very picturesque figure when, "crowned with the sickle and
the wheaten sheaf, Autumn comes jovial on," and he was cutting wheat,
his head covered with a coloured handkerchief, knotted at the corners,
to protect the back of his neck from the sun, which must have been
much cooler than the felt hat--a kind of "billycock" with a flat
top--which he habitually wore. I have noticed that the labourer's
style of hat is a matter of great conservatism, probably due to the
fancy that he would "look odd" in any other, and would be liable to
chaff from his fellow-workers.
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