“He’s a bad, bad boy. He’s a vurry naughty bad boy!”
By-and-by the woman came shuffling after them; the boy looked furtively around and dropped his sister’s hand.
“Carm on, me beauty!” cried the man, lifting the girl to his shoulder. “He’s a bad boy; you ’ave a ride on your daddy.” They went on alone, and the woman joined the boy. He looked up at her with a sad face.
“O, my Christ, Johnny!” she said, putting her arms round the boy, “what’s ’e bin doin’ to yeh? Yer face is all blood!”
“It’s only me nose, mother. Here,” he whispered, “here’s the tanner.”
They went together down the hill towards the inn, which had already a light in its windows. The screams from the barn had ceased, and a cart passed them full of young pigs, bloody and subdued. The hill began to resume its old dominion of soft sounds. It was nearly nine o’clock, and one anxious farmer still made hay although, on this side of the down, day had declined, and with a greyness that came not from the sky, but crept up from the world. From the quiet hill, as the last skein of cocks was carted to the stack, you could hear dimly men’s voices and the rattle of their gear.
PIFFINGCAP