Away from his mates Jerry might have been docile, but supported by them he was not going to be wife-ridden. “You go ’ome and I’ll come when I please,” repeated he doggedly. Lucy Wood knew the mood and knew that it was idle to fight it. “Dinner-time’s dinner-time to-day,” was all she said. “Sue and me ’as got a sight a linen to get done, and I shall clear away sharp.” “There’s a wife for ye,” said Casey facetiously. “Don’t let’s you and me get spliced, lads! That be ’ow the women study a man!” “I pity the one as ’ll ’ave to study you, Jim Casey!” retorted Lucy. “And may be if she’ve got to earn the money as well as feed the childer, she won’t get time to study no one much.” She turned as she spoke, and drew her jacket together with her old pettish movement. “That be a nasty one!” laughed Casey. “But if I was ‘cheeked’ like that, I be blowed if I’d give a woman what I earned! No, I’d keep it for myself, I would.” Lucy turned quickly. Up till now she had known well enough he would come home sooner or later, since he had no money wherewith to buy victuals. But now a sudden uneasiness seized her. “’E ain’t got any now, any ways,” said she, looking at him. “’E don’t get ’is wage till to-night.” Jerry quailed beneath her gaze. To do him justice, he had forgotten till this very moment that he had money in his pocket: it was such a very rare occurrence. His master, owing to a sudden departure, had paid him his due the evening before; he had faithfully promised to take it straight to his wife, but the tempters had come along, and a good part of it had already gone in the carouse of the night, which _she_ supposed he had owed to his friends. “’Old on, Jerry; stick to it, man!” came from the group. “Ye’ve never got your wage by now,” asked Lucy almost incredulously. He did not answer, and her face went white; she had counted on this rare week’s money of his for so many little debts. He lowered his eyes—he was genuinely sorry. The sight of her frail little body quivering with anxiety, of her frail little face going paler because of his selfish cruelty, reminded him vaguely of the day when she had been near to leaving him in consequence of what the doctor had called “grinding herself to death for a good-for-nothing husband.” He wondered if she was going to faint again now, as she had done then, when he had thought she was dead, and his heart turned sick. But she did not faint—his silence had told her the truth, and she pulled herself together, as she always did in an emergency. She said nothing; she knew there was nothing more to be said—_then_; she just left him and went on up the road. But when she had gone a little way she turned half round and waited, and her man came up a few steps towards her. “I’ll leave the cold bacon on the table ready for you,” said she, quite gently. “I may ’ave to go out with the linen.” “Keep it up, old man,” came Casey’s rasping tones up the path, followed by a brutal laugh.