“It isn’t, you know, it isn’t,” she replied. “The doctor says you imagine it’s there when it isn’t.” “Canna I feel what’s inside me?” he shouted. “There’s a traction-engine coming downhill,” she said. “That’ll scatter them. I’ll just go an’ finish your pudding.” She left him. The traction-engine went by, shaking the houses. Then the street was quiet, save for the men. A gang of youths from fifteen to twenty-five years old were playing marbles in the middle of the road. Other little groups of men were playing on the pavement. The street was gloomy. Willy could hear the endless calling and shouting of men’s voices. “Tha’rt skinchin’!” “I arena!” “Come ’ere with that blood-alley.” “Swop us four for’t.” “Shonna, gie’s hold on’t.” He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had weakened his mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control. Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay morning. The Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They were returning with their half-sovereigns. “Sorry!” bawled a voice. “Sorry!” The word is a form of address, corruption probably of “Sirrah”. Willy started almost out of his chair. “Sorry!” again bawled a great voice. “Art goin’ wi’ me to see Notts play Villa?” Many of the marble players started up. “What time is it? There’s no treens, we s’ll ha’e ter walk.” The street was alive with men. “Who’s goin’ ter Nottingham ter see th’ match?” shouted the same big voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his eyes, was calling. “Com’ on—aye, com’ on!” came many voices. The street was full of the shouting of men. They split up in excited cliques and groups. “Play up, Notts!” the big man shouted. “Plee up, Notts!” shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful authorities were aware. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” shouted the sick man at his window. Lucy came running upstairs. “I’m goin’ ter see Notts play Villa on th’ Meadows ground,” he declared. “You—_you_ can’t go. There are no trains. You can’t walk nine miles.” “I’m goin’ ter see th’ match,” he declared, rising. “You know you can’t. Sit down now an’ be quiet.” She put her hand on him. He shook it off. “Leave me alone, leave me alone. It’s thee as ma’es th’ peen come, it’s thee. I’m goin’ ter Nottingham to see th’ football match.” “Sit down—folks’ll hear you, and what will they think?” “Come off’n me. Com’ off. It’s her, it’s her as does it. Com’ off.” He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and he was strong as a lion. “Oh, Willy!” she cried. “It’s ’er, it’s ’er. Kill her!” he shouted, “kill her.” “Willy, folks’ll hear you.” “Th’ peen’s commin’ on again, I tell yer. I’ll kill her for it.”