that's what I call sharp and hard, Mr. Vale, and yet I'm called hard sometimes by the thirty-odd men under me. Now here's your gate, and good night to you. Don't forget to come over and see our herd."
Touching his cap he hurried down a sudden steep that fell from the gates of Grimstone, ending in a little bridge that spanned an unseen stream whose gushing murmur proclaimed it swollen with the spring rains.
Derek Vale stood still. He did not want to open the gate till Hobbs was out of sight. Then—"My gate," he thought, and laid his hand on the cold iron almost caressingly. The dark bulk of a low, broad, stone house rose before him, surrounded by the massive trunks of trees whose lowest branches were higher than its chimneys. The front of the house was in darkness, but he could see a light in one of the back rooms. He determined to go to the window where the light was and get a glimpse of the occupants of the house, so that he might have the advantage of having seen them unobserved.
The light was cast by an oil lamp on the kitchen table. Derek drew near the window with caution. He felt beneath his feet the stone of a flagged yard. A noise of stamping and singing came from within. He was astonished and amused by what he saw.
In the circle of ruddy light a girl was dancing a sort of breakdown, supplying the music for her performance with her own lusty, clear voice. She seemed charged with rough vigour, snapping her fingers and stamping her feet in almost frenzied rhythm. Her full breasts bounced, her strong legs leaped against her long, heavy skirt; the lamp light sparkled on the thick spectacles she wore. Around her were grouped four men and an old woman. "She must be
