When Abner came to his senses the limb was set. A long splint with a serrated lower end had been strapped to the child’s body from armpit to heel. Her face was still flushed, but she breathed as softly as though she were lying in a natural sleep. The doctor was washing his hands and preparing to set out again. He offered Abner a medicine glass full of cold water with a dash of brandy in it. ‘What’s owing, gaffer?’ Abner asked. The doctor looked him up and down. ‘A labourer,’ he thought, ‘with a wife and two kids: a decent-looking young fellow.’ He hated asking those people for money in the middle of a misfortune; but he had to live. ‘Oh, we’ll say five shillings,’ he said, ‘but don’t forget to send me the splint back. Dr Davies, Brampton Bryan. That will find me!’ Abner gave him two half-crowns that were loose in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You must be careful how you carry her. The bone’s in a nice position if you don’t disturb it.’ ‘How long will it take, doctor?’ Mary asked. ‘Five or six weeks with luck. Good-morning!’ For an hour or more they stayed in the surgery, visited from time to time by the doctor’s wife. Gladys awoke as from a gentle sleep. The support of the splint freed her from the spasm of the torn muscles. She rubbed her eyes and cried softly in her mother’s arms. ‘We’d best go straight to the station,’ said Abner. So, having torn the unwilling Morgan from the material attentions of the cook, they set off along the hot road that they had travelled earlier in the day. They walked slowly, for they had at least three hours to spare before the afternoon train left Redlake station. They reached their goal at three o’clock and laid the child down flat on a bench in the waiting room, while Abner produced the sandwiches which he had cut earlier in the morning at the inn. Morgan, having fed and cried a little because his dinner did not include specimens of the famous Bron cakes, fell asleep upon his mother’s knees. Mary and Abner talked together in undertones for fear of waking the children, until the station-master entered the waiting-room with a swagger and threw up the shutter of the booking-office, peering at them with official eyes through the wire grille. ‘I reckon I’d better get the tickets,’ said Abner. He went to the window, asking for two third singles and two halves to Llandwlas. The station-master whipped the tickets out and stamped them as smartly as though a queue of a hundred trippers was waiting for him. ‘Five and four pence ha’penny,’ he said. Abner felt for his purse: he knew that the doctor’s fee had only left him a few coppers loose in his pocket. A panic seized him. He could not find it. He turned to Mary. ‘You got my purse?’ ‘No, I’ve never seen it.’ ‘There was a quid in it. I must have put it in my waistcoat. Wait a moment, gaffer. . . . God! my watch is gone too!’ ‘Don’t get moithered now,’ she urged.