Derek had scarcely noticed the small shack in the far end of the orchard. It was so dilapidated, so weatherbeaten that he had supposed it to be but an unused outhouse.
Now he stood dismayed at the squalor of the hovel. It had been thrown together of odds and ends of boards; the roof had been covered with tar paper, now flapping loosely; the one small window showed the bare interior. The mud floor was still wet from spring rains, the walls were lined with bunks half filled with evil-smelling straw. Under a lean-to outside he saw a cooking stove red with rust, and, beneath the trees, a long table with benches on either side.
"This is horrible," he said. "Do you mean to say they sleep here?"
"Indeed they do," said Mrs. Machin, "and it's better than they get lots of places. I know of farms where they just live in the barns and sleep in the mow."
"Just the same," put in Windmill, "the Government is putting a stop to that sort of thing. If an inspector comes round and finds them all sleeping in one room you're liable to get into trouble."
"How many are there?"
"About fifteen. Old Solomon Sharroe, his wife, two daughters and their husbands, some younger boys and girls, and Jammery. He's quite above the rest of them."
"We must get another room fixed up for those women. I won't stand their living like animals."
"Your uncle never minded," said Mrs. Machin.
"Well, he should have been ashamed of himself."
"Look here," said Windmill, "there's a pile of timber down by the barn. I believe we could run up an extra room for the women in no time."
"And I shall drive to Brancepeth," said Vale, "and buy a couple of bedsteads and a chest of drawers."
