Gunn grinned. "I dinna think I'd be much guid if I was held," he said.
"Well, you're no prize at your best," said Derek. "You can go."
Shortly afterwards Gunn carried his tin box through the gate. That afternoon, walking through his orchard, Derek saw him at work hoeing among Chard's gooseberry bushes, Chard by his side. "Chard will get the last squeak out of him, and I wish him luck," thought Derek.
Windmill and Newbigging were spraying the orchard. Windmill held the hose while Newbigging pumped the machine. A glittering green rainbow of the evil-smelling Bordeaux mixture curved above the freshly budded trees. Newbigging sang a sailor's chanty as he pumped. His mind seemed full of the sea those spring days, and Derek feared that some day he, too, would get restless and leave. In spite of Mrs. Machin's protest, he raised the wages of the remaining men.
He climbed the low fence at the end of the orchard and, passing the acres of pruned beny canes, entered the lane. He intended to inspect a field of fall wheat at the back of the farm, now submerged by recent rains.
At the edge of the wood he heard his name called, and saw Mr. Jerrold striding towards him across the grass meadow. His dogs were as always at his heels. He came up and rested his arm on the fence. He began to talk with, what seemed to Vale, rather forced cheerfulness, of the prospect of early crops. Presently he said, looking into Derek's eyes with sudden seriousness:
"I wonder if you could lend me some money."
"Rather," said Derek, quickly, trying not to seem taken aback. "How much?"
"I know you're surprised at my asking, Vale, but things
