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till about two months after Robertson went away. Then, one day at the yards when things were going quickly, Tony let a yearling lamb in with the ewes. It was the sort of mistake that happens a dozen times a day when the sheep are crowding as fast as they were then, but it was undoubtedly a mistake. Tony expected the curse that he got, but the blow that followed it took him entirely by surprise. He disliked being surprised as much as Baldwin disliked self-control. He staggered against the fence, hate in his eyes, and all hands promptly stopped work, as unostentatiously as they could. Any diversion is welcome in the choking dust of a drafting yard, and besides, this was interesting, being the sort of thing Robertson did not like. The Boss might have something to say about it when he came back. . . . There was a woolly jam among the sheep, and Baldwin turned to the men.

“What’s up? Are you struck silly? Get on with your work—and you keep your eyes open for the future, my son, or you’ll get more than you want.”

Tony thought hard as he went on working. His was not the sweet nature that can forgive a blow—years afterwards he told someone that he could remember each separate time he had been hit, and it was probably true, though it testified to extreme minuteness of memory—but that was not worrying him now. Baldwin’s tongue was worse than his hand.

This affair at the yards was important only as showing which way the wind blew. He had never knocked Tony about before, but he was not likely to stop now he had begun. Tony felt dimly that Baldwin was the sort of man who rather enjoyed hitting people, when they weren’t going to hit back. He could understand that. He himself would have thoroughly enjoyed hitting Baldwin if the latter had been at his mercy. He was probably an unchivalrous boy.