§ 4
And now Bealby, having been regarded with approval for some moments and discussed in tantalizing undertones, was called upon to explain himself.
“Boy,” said the lady in the deerstalker, who was evidently the leader and still more evidently the spokeswoman of the party, “come here.”
“Yes, miss.” He put down the boot he was cleaning on the caravan step.
“In the first place, know by these presents, I am a married woman.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And miss is not a seemly mode of address for me.”
“No, miss. I mean—” Bealby hung for a moment and by the happiest of accidents, a scrap of his instruction at Shonts came up in his mind. “No,” he said, “your—ladyship.”
A great light shone on the spokeswoman’s face. “Not yet, my child,” she said, “not yet. He hasn’t done his duty by me. I am—a simple Mum.”
Bealby was intelligently silent.
“Say—Yes, Mum.”
“Yes, Mum,” said Bealby and everybody laughed very agreeably.
“And now,” said the lady, taking pleasure in her words, “know by these presents—By the bye, what is your name?”
Bealby scarcely hesitated. “Dick Mal-travers, Mum,” he said and almost added, “The Dauntless Daredevil of the Diamond-fields Horse,” which was the second title.
“Dick will do,” said the lady who was called Judy, and added suddenly and very amusingly: “You may keep the rest.”
(These were the sort of people Bealby liked. The right sort.)
“Well, Dick, we want to know, have you ever been in service?”
It was sudden. But Bealby was equal to it. “Only for a day or two, miss—I mean, Mum,—just to be useful.”
“Were you useful?”
Bealby tried to think whether he had been, and could recall nothing but the face of Thomas with the fork hanging from it. “I did my best, Mum,” he said impartially.
“And all that is over?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And you’re at home again and out of employment?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Do you live near here?”
“No—leastways, not very far.”
“With your father.”
“Stepfather, Mum. I’m a Norfan.”
“Well, how would you like to come with us for a few days and help with things? Seven-and-sixpence a week.”
Bealby’s face was eloquent.
“Would your stepfather object?”
Bealby considered. “I don’t think he would,” he said.
“You’d better go round and ask him.”
“I—suppose—yes,” he said.
“And get a few things.”
“Things, Mum?”
“Collars and things. You needn’t bring a great box for such a little while.”
“Yes, Mum....”
He hovered rather undecidedly.
“Better run along now. Our man and horse will be coming presently. We shan’t be able to wait for you long....”
Bealby assumed a sudden briskness and departed.
At the gate of the field he hesitated almost imperceptibly and then directed his face to the Sabbath stillness of the village.
Perplexity corrugated his features. The stepfather’s permission presented no difficulties, but it was more difficult about the luggage.
A voice called after him.
“Yes, Mum?” he said attentive and hopeful. Perhaps—somehow—they wouldn’t want luggage.
“You’ll want Boots. You’ll have to walk by the caravan, you know. You’ll want some good stout Boots.”
“All right, Mum,” he said with a sorrowful break in his voice. He waited a few moments but nothing more came. He went on—very slowly. He had forgotten about the boots.
That defeated him....
It is hard to be refused admission to Paradise for the want of a hand-bag and a pair of walking-boots....