midday
Bartamon was a small man , with a skull-like head , to the hollows of which , the bony projections , dark skin clung dryly ; his eyes were mere dimming glints of watery consciousness ; and from the sleeves of a faded blue shirt , the folds of formless , canvas trousers , knotted , blackish hands , grotesque feet , appeared to hang jerking on wires . `` Where 's the Father ? '' Gordon inquired . The other rested from the laborious sawing of a log , blinking and tremulous in the hard brilliancy of midday . `` Beyond , '' he answered vaguely , waving up the valley ; `` Sim Caley 's wife sent for him from Hollidew 's farm . Sim or his wife think they 're going to die two or three times the year , and bother the Father ... . But I would n't wonder they would , and them working for Hollidew , dawn , day and dark , with never a proper skinful of food , only this and that , maybe , chick ` ry and fat pork and moldy ends of nothing . ''