A shallow creek flowed through a ravine at the edge of the tall wheat, and below the spot where he stood its channel was spanned by the stringers of an unfinished bridge.

The creek had shrunk to a thread of water, but Festing, who had been wading about its bed, was wet and splashed with mire.

Moreover he had torn his threadbare overalls and his hot face was smeared where he had rubbed off the mosquitoes with dirty hands.
The evening was hot, he felt tired and moody, and his depression was not relieved when he glanced at the wheat.

There was no wind now, but the breeze had been fresh, and the ears of grain that were beginning to emerge from their sheaths dropped in a sickly manner.

The stalks had a ragged look and fine sand lay among the roots.