“Well, git down to your business. I mustn’t linger, or Maaster ull be gitting into bed in his boots.” He went downstairs, feeling suddenly smartingly sorry for his mother as she waddled upwards to this drunkard’s bed. He saw that her lot was a hard one. 11 The passage was in darkness, and Tom did not see, but felt, the side door swing open, with a damp drench of wind from the yard. There was a grey mist in the passage. The next minute a white stick-like thing flew out of it, suddenly like the wind, and then bumped into Tom, with the unexpected contact of warm flesh against his hands, and “Oo-er,” in Harry’s voice. “Harry....” “Oh, that’s you, Tom? Lemme git up and fetch some cloathes.” “But where’s those as you went out in?” “I dunno. I’ll tell you afterwards, but I’m coald, and I want my supper.” The slow, facile anger of his type went tingling into Tom’s speech and hands. “Supper! I’m hemmed if you git so much as a bite. Tell me this wunst where you left your cloathes or I’ll knock your head off, surelye.” He laid violent hands on Harry, who was, however, far too slippery to hold. He was free in a minute and dashed into the outer kitchen, slamming the door after him. When Tom came in he was sitting tailor-fashion on the table, gnawing the top of a cottage loaf. The elder brother could not help laughing at him, he looked such a queer goblin creature. “Doan’t be vrothered, Tom,” whined Harry, taking advantage of his relenting—“it’s your last night at home.” Tom winced—they were always throwing it at him, his “last night.” “Lucky fur you as it is—and unlucky fur me—and unlucky fur Worge if this is the way you’re going on when I’m a-gone. Where’ve you bin?” “Only over to Bucksteep, Tom.” “But wot have you done wud your clothes?” “Mus’ Archie’s got ’em.” “Wot d’you mean? Spik the truth.” “It’s Bible truth. Willie and Peter Sinden and Bob Pix and me thought as how we’d bathe by moonlight in Bucksteep pond, and Mus’ Archie’s hoame on leave, and he wur walking wud his young woman in the paddock, and he sawed us, and took all our cloathes whiles we wur in the water. He thought as how he’d got us then, and that we couldn’t git away wudout our cloathes. But he’s found he’s wrong, fur we climbed up the far bank into Throws Wood, and ran hoame.” “You mean to tell me as you’ve come in your skin all the way from Bucksteep?” Harry nodded, and laughed at some Puckish memory. “Well, all I wonder is as you wurn’t took and put in gaol—you would have been if policeman had met you—and you’ll catch your death of cold.” He pulled off his coat and most ungently bundled Harry into it. Then another idea struck him. He groaned, and scratched his head. “I must write to Mus’ Archie this wunst.” “Why, Tom?” “To git your clothes back. We can’t afford to lose a good suit of clothes.” He turned wearily to the cupboard, and took out a penny ink-bottle, a pen, and some cheap writing-paper. “Tom—he’ll know it wur me if you write.”