The wheat went down before them, their
wake was strewn with gleaming sheaves, and one man came foremost
swaying in the driving-seat of a rattling machine. His face was the
color of a Blackfeet's, and she could see the darkness of his neck
above the loose-fronted shirt, and a bare blackened arm that was raised
to hold the tired beasts to their task. Their trampling, and the crash
and rattle that swelled in slow crescendo, drowned the murmur of the
wheat, until one of the machines stood still, and the leader, turning a
moment in his saddle, held up a hand. Then those that came behind
swung into changed formation, passed, and fell into indented line
again, while Colonel Barrington nodded with grim approval.
"It is very well done," he said. "The best of harvesters! No
newcomers yonder. They're capable Manitoba men. I don't know where he
got them, and, in any other year, one would have wondered where he
would find the means of paying them. We have never seen farming of
this kind at Silverdale."
He seemed to sigh a little while his hand closed on the bridle, and
Maud Barrington fancied she understood his thoughts just then.
"Nobody can be always right, and the good years do not come alone," she
said. "You will plow every acre next one."
Barrington smiled dryly. "I'm afraid that will be a little late, my
dear. Any one can follow, but since, when everybody's crop is good,
the price comes down, the man who gets the prize is the one who shows
the way.
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