he had never planted
flax, he wished he had never heard of it, he wished--he hardly knew what
he did wish, but he was sick of flax.

Crops of all sorts were shortened by continued drought; corn would be an
utter failure. He had given notes for a new harvester and other machinery
while the prospects for crops were good, and the knowledge that implement
dealers would collect those notes whether the yield of grain was equal to
their demands or not tightened the set lines about his naturally stern
mouth and irritated a temper never good at the best. Daily he became more
obstinate and unapproachable.

Josiah Farnshaw was not only obstinate, he was surly. Nothing could induce
him to show any interest in the flax field after he found that his wife
was looking out for its advantages. If she suggested that they go to
examine it, he was instantly busy. If she asked when he intended to begin
the cutting, he was elaborately indifferent and replied, "When its ripe;
there's plenty of time." When at last the field showed a decided tendency
to brown, he helped a neighbour instead of beginning on Friday, as his
wife urged. Saturday he found something wrong with the binder. By Saturday
night he began to see that the grain was ripening fast. He was warned and
was ready to actually start the machine early the next day. His grizzled
face concealed the grin it harboured at the idea of running the harvester
on Sunday; he knew Mrs. Farnshaw's scruples. The flax had ripened, almost
overnight, because of the extreme heat. Torn with anxiety and the certain
knowledge that haste was necessary, Mrs. Farnshaw quoted scripture and
hesitated. Her husband, who had delayed in all possible ways up to this
time, and had refused to listen to her advice, became suddenly anxious to
do "that cuttin'." Now that his wife hesitated from principle, he was
intensely anxious to move contrary to her scruples.

The knowledge that her husband was enjoying her indecision, and that he
was grimly thinking that her religious scruples would not stand the test,
made her even less able to decide a question than usual.

The game was getting exciting and he let her argue, urging with pretended
indifference that, "That flax's dead ripe now an' if it shatters out on
th' ground you kin blame yourself," adding with grim humour, "There's
nothin' like th' sound of money t' bring folks t' their senses. It's good
as a pinch of pepper under th' nose of a bulldog."

There was everyt