One morning early in September, I came across Bettesworth, as he was contentedly trimming with his fag-hook a grassy bank by the roadside. He told me that he was to start on the following day as one of the “pole-pullers” for a hop-planter whom he has served in that capacity for many years. His fellow pole-pullers—there are five of them—happen to be all new men this year, and Bettesworth appeared rather proud of the distinction of his seniority and experience. “I be the only old hand left,” said he. “I dessay there was over thirty of our gang come round to me last night, to know if I was gwine pole-pullin' again for 'em. ‘Be you gwine with we, Fred? We sha'n't know where we be without you.’”

In a Surrey hop-garden, the pole-puller's office is one of some responsibility, at times demanding not a little stiff-necked determination in the man who undertakes it. Seen from the outside, few things appear simpler than his duty of cutting off the hop-bines close to the ground, and lifting the pole, with the whole season's growth upon it, to be carried bodily to the picker's basket. But then, poles of hops vary: from some the baskets can be filled twice as fast as from others; and pickers are apt to grow jealous. Neither do they like to be kept waiting.