Claude Monet Banks of the Seine

Combination Harvester accelerated towards them. The schip-schip of its blades became a whine.
‘Is it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?’
THAT’S NOT ALL I STOLE.
Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it fall to the ground.
Then he folded his arms.
Miss Flitworth dragged at him.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
DRAMA.
The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a cloud of sawdust.
‘Are you sure we’ll be all right?’
Deathwent clonk.
Then the Harvester was still travelling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together, jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed away across the fields.
There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots. And then there was silence. nodded.‘Well. That’s all right then.’The Harvester’s wheels were a blur PROBABLY.And then . . .. . . something in the machinery