“Was there a trial then?”
“There was a kind of a trial. Naturally. A beautiful trial. The police came and fetched poor William. They took him away and in due course he was hanged.”
“William! But what had he got to do with it?”
“Nothing. It was rough on him, but he hadn’t played straight and so nobody struck up for him. They made out a case against him—there was some onlucky bit of evidence which I’ll take my oath old Harry knew something about—and William was done for. Ah, when things take a turn against you it’s as certain as twelve o’clock, when they take a turn; you get no more chance than a rabbit from a weasel. It’s like dropping your matches into a stream, you needn’t waste the bending of your back to pick them out—they’re no good on, they’ll never strike again. And Edith, she sat in court through it all, very white and trembling and sorrowful, but when the judge put his black cap on they do say she blushed and looked across at William and gave a bit of a smile. Well, she had to suffer for his doings, so why shouldn’t he suffer for hers. That’s how I look at it....”
“But God-a-mighty...!”
“Yes, God-a-mighty knows. Pretty girls they were, both, and as like as two pinks.”
There was quiet for some moments while the tiler and the mason emptied their cups of beer. “I think,” said Sam then, “the rain’s give over now.”
“Ah, that it has,” cried Bob. “Let’s go and do a bid more on this ’bugging church or she won’t be done afore Christmas.”
POMONA’S BABE