LITMIR.BIZ

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evenin’,” to me, who was a stranger in the parlour.

      “It’s raïght for thaïgh,” said a fat young fellow with an unwilling white moustache, “— tha can co’te as much as ter likes ter ‘a’e, as well as th’ lass, an’ it cost thee nöwt —” at which the room laughed, taking pipes from mouths to do so. George sat down, looking round.

      “‘Owd on a bit,” said a black-whiskered man, “tha mun ‘a ‘e patience when to ‘t co’tin’ a lass. Ow’s puttin’ th’ öwd lady ter bed —‘ark thee — can t’ ‘ear — that wor th’ bed latts goin’ bang. Ow’ll be dern in a minnit now, gie ‘er time ter tuck th’ öwd lady up. Can’ ter ‘ear ‘er say ‘er prayers.”

      “Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding:

      “Fancy th’ öwd lady sayin’ ‘er prayers! — it ‘ud be enough ter ma’e ‘er false teeth drop out.”

      The room laughed.

      They began to tell tales about the old landlady. She had practised bone-setting, in which she was very skilful. People come to her from long distances that she might divine their trouble and make right their limbs. She would accept no fee.

      Once she had gone up to Dr Fullwood to give him a piece of her mind, inasmuch as he had let a child go for three weeks with a broken collar-bone, whilst treating him for dislocation. The doctor had tried the high hand with her, since when, wherever he went, the miners placed their hands on their shoulders, and groaned: “Oh my collar-bone!”

      Here Meg came in. She gave a bright, quick, bird-like look at George, and flushed a brighter red.

      “I thought you wasn’t cummin’,” she said.

      “Dunna thee bother —‘e’d none stop away,” said the black-whiskered man.

      She brought us glasses of whisky, and moved about supplying the men, who chaffed with her honestly and good-naturedly. Then she went out, but we remained in our corner. The men talked on the most peculiar subjects: there was a bitter discussion as to whether London is or is not a seaport — the matter was thrashed out with heat; then an embryo artist set the room ablaze by declaring there were only three colours, red, yellow. and blue, and the rest were not colours, they were mixtures: this amounted almost to atheism and one man asked the artist to dare to declare that his brown breeches were not a colour, which the artist did, and almost had to fight for it; next they came to strength, and George won a bet of five shillings, by lifting a piano; then they settled down, and talked sex, sotto voce, one man giving startling accounts of Japanese and Chinese prostitutes in Liverpool. After this the talk split up: a farmer began to counsel George how to manage the farm attached to the inn, another bargained with him about horses, and argued about cattle, a tailor advised him thickly to speculate, and unfolded a fine secret by which a man might make money, if he had the go to do it — so on, till eleven o’clock. Then Bill came and called “time!” and the place was empty, and the room shivered as a little fresh air came in between the foul tobacco smoke, and the smell of drink, and foul breath.

      We were both affected by the whisky we had drunk. I was ashamed to find that when I put out my hand to take my glass, or to strike a match, I missed my mark, and fumbled; my hands seemed hardly to belong to me, and my feet were not much more sure. Yet I was acutely conscious of every change in myself and in him; it seemed as if I could make my body drunk, but could never intoxicate my mind, which roused itself and kept the sharpest guard. George was frankly half drunk: his eyelids sloped over his eyes and his speech was thick; when he put out his hand he knocked over his glass, and the stuff was spilled all over the table; he only laughed. I, too, felt a great prompting to giggle on every occasion, and I marvelled at myself.

      Meg came into the room when all the men had gone.

      “Come on, my duck,” he said, waving his arm with the generous flourish of a tipsy man. “Come an’ sit ’ere.”

      “Shan’t you come in th’ kitchen?” she asked, looking round on the tables where pots and glasses stood in little pools of liquor, and where spent match and tobacco-ash littered the white wood.

      “No — what for? — come an’ sit ’ere!”— he was reluctant to get on his feet; I knew it and laughed inwardly; I also laughed to hear his thick speech, and his words which seemed to slur against his cheeks.

      She went and sat by him, having moved the little table with its spilled liquor.

      “They’ve been tellin’ me how to get rich,” he said, nodding his head and laughing, showing his teeth, “An’ I’m goin’ ter show ’em. You see, Meg, you see — I’m goin’ ter show ’em I can be as good as them, you see.”

      “Why,” said she, indulgent, “what are you going to do?”

      “You wait a bit an’ see — they don’t know yet what I can do — they don’t know — you don’t know — none of you know.”

      “An’ what shall you do when we’re rich, George?”

      “Do? — I shall do what I like. I can make as good a show as anybody else, can’t I?”— he put his face very near to hers, and nodded at her, but she did not turn away. “Yes — I’ll see what it’s like to have my fling. We’ve been too cautious, our family has — an’ I have; we’re frightened of ourselves, to do anything. I’m goin’ to do what I like, my duck, now — I don’t care — I don’t care — that!”— he brought his hand down heavily on the table nearest him, and broke a glass. Bill looked in to see what was happening.

      “But you won’t do anything that’s not right, George!”

      “No — I don’t want to hurt nobody — but I don’t care — that!”

      “You’re too good-hearted to do anybody any harm.”

      “I believe I am. You know me a bit, you do, Meg — you don’t think I’m a fool now, do you?”

      “I’m sure I don’t — who does?”

      “No — you don’t — I know you don’t. Gi’e me a kiss — thou’rt a little beauty, thou art — like a ripe plum! I could set my teeth in thee, thou’rt that nice — full o’ red juice”— he playfully pretended to bite her. She laughed, and gently pushed him away.

      “Tha likest me, doesna to?” he asked softly.

      “What do you want to know for?” she replied, with a tender archness.

      “But tha does — say now, tha does.”

      “I should a’ thought you’d a’ known, without telling.”

      “Nay, but I want to hear thee.”

      “Go on,” she said, and she kissed him.

      “But what should you do if I went to Canada and left you?”

      “Ah — you wouldn’t do that.”

      “But I might — and what then?”

      “Oh, I don’t know what I should do. But you wouldn’t do it, I know you wouldn’t — you couldn’t.” He quickly put his arms round her and kissed her, moved by the trembling surety of her tone:

      “No, I wouldna — I’d niver leave thee — tha’d be as miserable as sin, shouldna ta, my duck?”

      “Yes,” she murmured.

      “Ah,” he said, “tha’rt a warm little thing — tha loves me, eh?”

      “Yes,” she murmured, and he pressed her to him, and kissed her, and held her close.

      “We’ll be married soon, my bird — are ter glad? — in a bittha’rt glad, aren’t ta?”

      She looked up at him as if he were noble. Her love for him was so generous that it beautified him.

      He had to walk his bicycle home, being unable

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