So the days went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returning late. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way of dropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And he and Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all his fun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And Joe’s stand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him, got on his nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn, at which Joe’s eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned unheeding aside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun, outshining Albert himself. Miss Stokes still came to the station with the wain: Monkey-nuts, Albert called her, though not to her face. For she was very clear and good-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bit afraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading was going on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemed thinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it had the tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tanned face, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinister look. “Come on, Joe!” the corporal urged sharply one day. “What’re you doing, boy? Looking for beetles on the bank?” Joe turned round swiftly, almost menacing, to work. “He’s a different fellow these days, Miss Stokes,” said Albert to the young woman. “What’s got him? Is it Monkey-nuts that don’t suit him, do you think?” “Choked with chaff, more like,” she retorted. “It’s as bad as feeding a threshing machine, to have to listen to some folks.” “As bad as what?” said Albert. “You don’t mean me, do you, Miss Stokes?” “No,” she cried. “I don’t mean you.” Joe’s face became dark red during these sallies, but he said nothing. He would eye the young woman curiously, as she swung so easily at the work, and he had some of the look of a dog which is going to bite. Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather severe. The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed than ever, he watched him, determined to have it out with him. When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger man undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither chaffing nor commanding. “What’s gone wrong, boy?” Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding his puttees, and did not answer or look up. “You can hear, can’t you?” said Albert, nettled. “Yes, I can hear,” said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face was purple. “Then why don’t you answer?” Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling. The corporal watched these movements shrewdly. “And _then_ what?” he asked, ironically.