I knew that the Tresidders must have enemies as well as other people, and it was for me to find out who they were. This I had no great difficulty in doing. A man named William Dawe had farmed a place named Treviscoe, on the Pennington estate, and the poor fellow had several seasons of bad luck. One year his turnip crop failed; the next the foot and mouth disease got hold of his cattle; and the next, during the lambing season, he lost a great number of sheep. Indeed, so bad was his luck that he was unable to pay his rent. Perhaps Tresidder would have been lenient with him but for two things: one was that he had refused to take sides with him against my father, and another was that when Nick Tresidder insulted William Dawe's daughter the farmer gave him a thrashing. The end of all this was that William Dawe was sold up, and even then he was not free from all his difficulties.
One of the first important things I did after my father's death, therefore, after a serious conversation with the farmer, was to lure him to come to Elmwater Barton, with his wife and son and daughter, in order to manage the farm. I do not think in all my life I have ever seen a man so grateful.
"Will you come, William?" I asked, when I told him what wages I could afford to give.
"Come, Maaster Jasper, come! I reck'n I will! Why—" And then he caught at my hand, and behaved in a way that made me think for the time that I was serving him only, and not myself at all.
In a few days William was settled down at the Barton, and right well did he arrange for the harvest, and right hard did both he and his son work for me. Indeed, both William and his son George seemed ready to work their arms off for me, and were both anxious to serve me night and day. George Dawe was a strapping fellow of twenty-five, nearly as tall and strong as myself, though not quite. This was proved one day when we wrestled down in the calves' meadow. I had hard work to master him, for George had taken the wrestling prize at St. Eve's Feast for three years in succession. I was proud to have thrown him, especially as I had not yet got my full strength, not being twenty years of age. George had had a varied experience. He had been to sea in a trading vessel, and, if the truth must be confessed, had done a fair amount of smuggling. Be that as it may, George Dawe loved me like a brother, and nothing was too much for him to do for me. Thus I regarded myself as very fortunate. Eliza Dawe, too, was a careful, sensible woman, while Selina, her daughter, was a strapping, healthy wench who could do as much work as two ordinary women.
Now, I say this was a great help to me, for they all watched my interests closely.
"Lev any ov the Trezidders try any ov their dirty capers now," said George to me, "and we'll laive 'em knaw."
Those who know nothing about farming can have no idea what a great amount of harm a seemingly little mistake can do. Suppose, for instance, there are two ten-acred fields side by side. Suppose the month is early July, when the corn has nearly reached its full height, and the heads have all bursted ready to ripen. Well, suppose, again, that one of these ten-acred fields has barley, or oats, or wheat, while the other is a browsing field in which twenty or thirty head of cattle are feeding. Then let some evil-disposed person open the gate between these two fields, and the thirty head of cattle get into the cornfield—what happens? Why, £20 worth of damage can be done in a single night. And things like this were often happening in my father's days, and thus he was kept poor.
But things changed after I got George Dawe on the Barton. His eyes seemed to be everywhere, and always in my interests.
Let me give one example (and then I will soon get on to my story proper) how George Dawe saved me a large amount of money, and at the same time helped me to teach the Tresidders a lesson.
It was the June after I had got William Dawe's family to live with me. We had had several dry weeks, so that the fields had become parched and bare, and we were anxious lest the sheep should not have enough grass. One field had been planted with vatches, which, as every farmer knows, grow quickly and are cut for the horses.
"William," I said to Dawe one day, "I am afraid we shall have to sacrifice a hay field. The browsing fields are all brown; the sheep can't get enough to eat. We must be careful not to turn them there when the dew is on the grass, though, or they'll get vlayed."
"I wudden trouble, Maaster Jasper; ship c'n nibble a lot on a dewy mornin', and we sh'll git rain zoon, I reck'n."
"Well, as you think best; but I fancy we'd better turn the biggest lot into the 'Sheeps' Close' to-night." The "Sheeps' Close" was the name of one of the best meadows, which at this time was very bare owing to the long spell of dry, hot weather.
Well, I had to ride to Truro that afternoon, so I did not get home till late at night. I found George Dawe waiting up for me.
"Anything the matter, George?" I asked.
"Iss, ther es, Maaster Jasper."
"What?" I asked.
"The Trezidders be up to the ould gaame. When I wos comin' 'ome from St. Eve two or dree 'ours agone, I 'eared young Nick plannin' ev it weth Buddle."
"Explain, George," I said.
George told his story, with the result that we made our way to the "Sheeps' Close" and hid behind the hedge. Just before dawn—that is, about three o'clock in the morning—we saw two men coming toward the gateway. We saw them unfasten the gate and open it wide, then we heard one say to the other, "Now let's fetch up the sheep, and the fool will be worth a bit less money in a few hours."
Then they went away, and in a little while we heard them "whishing" up the sheep. George closed the gate, and we both waited until they came up. There were a hundred and seventy-five sheep in the flock, and they brought them up for the purpose of turning them into the vatches. Here they would be knee-deep in rank vegetation, and the poor things, glad to get to such juicy meat, would eat ravenously. The result of this would be that they would get filled with wind and would swell horribly, and if not immediately relieved would die a painful death. If the design succeeded in this case I should be hundreds of pounds poorer before the men would be at their work.
It may be imagined, therefore, that my blood was pretty hot, and that my feelings toward the Tresidders were not those of a lover, and I will leave it to any fair-minded man whether my anger was not reasonable.
As I said, George and I waited by the gate until they came up. The sheep came close to the gate, as if waiting to be let in, and the two men stood behind, not knowing, evidently, why the poor creatures did not go to their death.
"What's the matter, Jacob?" asked young Nick Tresidder.
"Dunnaw, aw'm zure," answered Jacob, who was the eldest son of Tresidder's "head man" and the worst rake in the parish. "Lev us go up an' zee."
So they came up, as we expected they would.
"Why, the gaate es cloased and apsed!" cried Jacob. "The devil must 'a 'bin 'ere."
"Nonsense," said Nick, "you couldn't have opened it; you must have been dreaming. There, open it."
"You tackle Nick Tresidder, an' I'll 'ave a go with Buddle," said George to me, in a whisper; "he's allays a-braggin' as 'ow 'ee c'n bait me. Now then, jump out!"
At this we both leaped forward. I took Nick Tresidder by the scruff of the neck, while George gripped Buddle like a blacksmith's vice.
The sheep jumped away frightened, while these two blackguards cried out as if the judgment day had come.
"Es et the devil?" asked Buddle.
"No,"
