Festing, however, had given up hoping for rain, which would not make much difference if it came now.
The front of the wide belt of grain was ragged and bitten into hollows by the driving sand.

The torn stalks drooped and slanted away from the wind, while others that had fallen lay about their roots.

Farther in, the damage was less, but the ears were half-filled and shriveled.

The field was parti-colored, for the dull, dark green had changed to a dingy, sapless hue, and the riper patches had a sickly yellow tinge instead of a coppery gleam.
Festing's face hardened.

If he thrashed out half the number of bushels he had expected, he would be lucky.