The next day Harry took him to see the spring sowings. They were finished now, and the chocolate acres lay moist and furrowed in a muffle of misty April sunshine. Harry, more thickset and sinewy than of old, tramped a little behind his brother, as a workman after an inspector, with sidelong glance at Tom’s brown, stubborn [136] profile, anxious to see if praise or delight could be read there.
Tom was indeed delighted with the fruits of Harry’s industry, swelling in soft, scored curves from Worge’s southern boundaries at Forges Wood to the northern limits of the Street. But he was also aghast.
“You’ll never have the labour to kip and reap this—and you’ve bruk up grass!”
“I can manage valiant till harvest, and then I’ll git extra hands. As for the grass, ’twur only an old-fool’s idea that it mun never be ploughed.”
“And I reckon ’tis a young-fool’s idea to plough it,” said Tom rebukingly.
“The newspaaper said as grass-lands mun be bruk up now, to maake more acres.”
“And wot does the paaper know about it?”
“A lot, seemingly.”
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