Whilst father was fighting

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
Are you asleep, Jackie?
Bob Middleton, closed the door of the attic which served as a bedroom for himself and his little five-year-old brother as he spoke, and stepped softly to the bedside.
No, Jackie was not asleep. He had sprung up in bed at the sound of Bob's voice, and now cried chokingly—
Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!
Why, what is the matter, old chap? Bob, inquired. The question was needless, for he knew his little brother was crying from fear—fear of being alone in the dark. I hoped I should find you asleep, he went on without waiting for a reply; it was an hour ago that Aunt Martha put you to bed, and you promised you'd try to go to sleep right away.
I did try, was the plaintive answer, followed by the anxious inquiry— Are you coming to bed now?
No, said Bob, I've only come up for a few minutes. Aunt Martha said I mustn't stay long, for she's several errands for me to do yet. He went to the window—it was low in the sloping roof—and pulled up the blind. There, now! he cried, isn't that better? The moon's like a big lamp in the sky, and the stare are shining ever so brightly.
I can see them, Jackie said, with a sobbing breath. I wanted Aunt Martha to pull up the blind, but she wouldn't, and—and she said if I got out of bed she'd give me the stick. I hope she won't whip me again, Bobbie; she does whip so hard.
Bob set his teeth and was silent for a minute. Mrs. Mead, their Aunt Martha, was not always kind to Jackie. She was not always kind to him either, but that he felt did not matter. He and his little brother— Jackie was five years younger—had been living with Mrs. Mead for ten months, ever since the beginning of the war with Germany, when their father, a reservist, had rejoined the colours. Their previous home had been in a village some miles from Bristol, where their father had been employed on a farm.
Their mother had died when Jackie had been born, so there had been no one but Aunt Martha to take charge of them when the call to arms had taken their father from them. Mrs. Mead, who was a childless widow, kept a greengrocer's shop in a dingy street in Bristol; and, as she took lodgers, she had no room to spare her little nephews but an attic. From the boys' attic, which was at the back of the house, was a view of the river and the backs of the houses on the opposite bank—not a very cheering view for eyes accustomed to pretty wooded scenery.