But a little observation showed that the keeper had a 'habit.' He used to come out across the wheatfields to a small wayside 'public,' and his route passed by a lonely barn and rickyard.

One warm summer day I saw him come as usual to the 'public,' and while he was there quietly slipped as far as the barn and hid in it.
In July such a rickyard is very hot; heat radiates from every straw.

The ground itself is dry and hard, each crevice choked with particles of white chaff; so that even the couch can hardly grow except close under the low hedge where the pink flower of the pimpernel opens to the sky.
White stone staddles--short conical pillars with broad capitals--stand awaiting the load of sheaves that will shortly press on them.

Every now and then a rustling in the heaps of straw indicates the presence of mice.

From straw and stone and bare earth heat seems to rise up.