Tom’s heart had sunk rather low before he came to Worge. He was always dissatisfied with himself after seeing Thryza. He never seemed able to find anything to say, just because she was the person he liked most in the world to talk to. He felt that he must be very [28] different from the other men who came to see her—for men liked Thyrza—who could make even the buying of a penn’orth of sweets an occasion for artful sally and interesting conversation. That reminded him that he had left all his purchases on the counter. What an unaccountable fool he was! However, he would not go back for them. They must wait till to-morrow. Still, he wished he hadn’t left them. Thyrza would think him silly, and besides he had wanted to give those sweets to his brothers and sisters. He nearly always brought them something when he went into the town.

They were all at supper in the kitchen—he could hear their voices. He wondered if his father had come back yet. He had not, for the first question that greeted his entrance was:

“Whur’s your faather, Tom?”

“I left him at Woods Corner. I’d have thought he’d bin home by now.”

“Then you thought silly. ’T’aun’t likely as he’ll come home till they close. You should have stopped along of un.”

“I thought I’d better git back home and tell you the news.”

“And wot’s that? Have they let you off?”

“Not they. A fortnight’s final.”

Mrs. Beatup began to cry. She was a large, stout woman with masses of rough grey hair, and a broad, rather childish face, which now looked more like a child’s than ever as it wrinkled up for crying.

“Now, mother, doan’t you taake on,” said Ivy, the eldest girl, getting up and putting her arm round her.

“It’s a shaame, a hemmed shaame,” sobbed the woman. [29] “No woander as faather’s stopped at Woods Corner. To take our eldest boy as is the prop and stay of the whole of us!”

“He aun’t no such thing,” said Ivy, who was a strapping girl—rather like her mother, except that her round face ended in a sharp chin, which gave her an unexpected air of shrewdness. The second girl, Nell, was helping her brother to his supper of pork and cabbage.

“No one can say he’s indispensable,” she remarked in rather a pretty, half-educated voice—she was pupil teacher in her second year at the school in Brownbread Street. “There’s Harry just on sixteen, and there’s Juglery and Elphick, and no one can say father isn’t a strong man and able to look after the farm.”

“Your faather’s no use. Tom, did you tell them as your faather had bad habits?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom sulkily, shovelling in the cabbage with his knife.

“Then you wur a fool. You know as your faather aun’t himself three nights out of five, and yet you go and say naun about it. How are they to know if you doan’t tell them?”

“I wurn’t going to tell all the big folk round Senlac as my faather drinks.”

“Hush, Tom! I never said as you wur to say that—but you might have let ’em know, careful like, as he aun’t always able to look after the farm as well as you might think.”

[30]

“It ud have done no good. Drunkenness aun’t a reason for exemption, as they say. Besides, I’d middling little to do in the matter. Faather was applying fur me, and he did all the talking—an unaccountable lot of it, too. I wurn’t took because there wurn’t enough said against it, I promise you. But seemingly before a farm chap like me gits off, he’s got to have a certifickit from the War Agricultural Committee, and they read a letter saying as they’d recommended one to be given, but the Executive Committee or summat hadn’t fallen in wud it. So there’s no use crying, mother, for go I must, and it’ll be none the easier for you making all this vrother.”

He was cross because he was unhappy.

“Will you be in the Royal Sussex, Tom—along of Mus’ Dixon and Mus’ Archie?” asked Zacky, the youngest boy.

“I dunno.”

“When ull you be leaving?”

“In a fortnight, I’ve told you.”

“I hear as how Bill Putland ull be going soon,” said Mrs. Beatup. “He’d be company like fur you, Tom.”

“Bill!—he’s too unaccountable fine and grand fur me. He thinks no end of himself being Mus’ Lamb’s chuvver. But I’ll tell you who’s joined the Sussex, though, and that’s Jerry Sumption. I met Mus’ Sumption, this evenun, and he toald me.”

“You doan’t mean to say as Jerry’s left the fackory?”

“Yes. He went and enlisted—minister says he’s unaccountable proud of him.”

There was a crackle of laughter round the table.

“Well, we all of us know, and I reckon minister knows as we know, that if Jerry had bin any sort of use at the munititions they wouldn’t have let him join up. It’s a law that if you maake munititions you doan’t have to join up.”

“Oh, Jerry’s bin never no good at naun. He’s jest a roving gipsy dog.”

Mrs. Beatup turned suddenly to Ivy:

“Did you know aught of this?”

“Not I!” said Ivy carelessly. “Jerry hasn’t written to me fur more’n a month. Maybe this is why.”

“I’m justabout sorry fur Mus’ Sumption,” said Tom, whom his supper had put in better humour. [31] “He has a feeling as Jerry ull come to no good in the army.”

“No more he will, nor nowhere, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Doan’t you never have naun to do wud him, Tom. I doan’t want my children to git the splash of that gipsy muck——” And she threw another half-defiant, half-furtive look at Ivy.

“Where’s Harry?” asked Tom.

“Out ratting,” Zacky informed him.

“Well, he woan’t find any supper’s bin kept fur him, that’s all,” said Mrs. Beatup, rising and pushing back her chair. “Nell, put the plaates on the tray and maake yourself useful fur wunst.”

A flush crept over Nell’s pale, pretty face, from her neck to the roots of her reddish hair. She gingerly picked up two of the smelly, greasy plates, then quickly put them down again.

“There’s faather.”

“Where?” Mrs. Beatup listened.

“I heard the gate—and there goes the side door.”

The next minute a heavy, uncertain footstep was heard in the passage, then a bump as if someone had lurched into the wall. The family stood stock-still and waited.

“Maybe he’ll hurt himself in the dark,” said Mrs. Beatup, “now policeman woan’t let us have the light at the passage bend.”

“No, he’s all right. There he is scrabbling at the door.”

There was the sound of fingers groping and scratching. Then the door opened and the farmer of Worge came in, his hat a little on one side, a lock of hair falling over his red forehead, and the whole of his waistcoat undone. He stood, supporting himself against the doorpost, and glared at the family.

“Your supper’s still hot, Ned,” said Mrs. Beatup hesitatingly—“leastways, the gals have eaten all the [32] taters, but I can hot you up....” She began to whimper as the bleared grey eyes slowly rolled towards her.

“Be quiet, Mother,” said Ivy.

Mus’ Beatup, slowly and carefully, made his way towards a broken-springed armchair beside the fire. He then sat down by the simple process of falling into it backwards; then he stretched out a foot that seemed made of clay and manure——

“Taake off my boots, Missus.”