Bruised stalks and torn blades lay flat in a tattered, tangled mass, splashed with sticky mud.

The rain that might have saved him had come too late and was finishing the ruin the sand and hail had made.
Then the downpour thickened and the light died out, and he drove to the house.

He could see in the morning if any remnant of the crop could be cut, but there would not be enough to make much difference.

Hope had gone, and his face was stern when he called the hired man and got down stiffly from the dripping rig..