The man stirred, and looking at him became at once intent as he saw his
face.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Something else gone wrong?"

Edgar nodded.

"I'm sorry," he answered simply. "Put on your things and come out.
You had better get it over with."

In three or four minutes George left the house. Holding himself
steadily in hand, he walked through the drenched grass toward the
wheat. On reaching it, he set his lips tight and stood very still.
The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks, half-buried
in a mass of rent and torn-up blades, covered the wide stretch of soil
where the wheat had been. The crop had been utterly wiped out by the
merciless hail. Edgar did not venture to speak; any sympathy he could
express would have looked like mockery; and for a while there was
strained silence. Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.

"Well," he said, "it has to be faced. After this, we'll try another
plan; more stock, for one thing." He paused and then resumed: "Tell
Grierson to hurry breakfast. I must drive in to the Butte; there's a
good deal to be done."

Edgar moved away, feeling relieved. George, instead of despairing, was
considering new measures. He was far from beaten yet.