His face clouded and grew dark.
"Dealish nice business!" he said.

"I am here in the woods digging flower roots, and a gang of men in the city are searching for the girl I love.
If ever a job seemed peculiarly a man's own, it appears this would be.
What business has any other man spying after my woman?
Why am I not down there doing my own work, as I always have done it?
Who's more likely to find her than I am?
It seems as if there would be an instinct that would lead me straight to her, if I'd go.

And you can wager I'll go fast enough." The Harvester appeared as if he would start that instant, but with lips closely shut he finally forced himself to go on with his work.

When he had rifled the bed, and uprooted all he cared to take during one season, he carried the roots to the lake shore below the curing house, and spread them on a platform he had built.

He stepped into his boat and began dashing pails of water over them and using a brush.