"Steady with it then!" cried Ernie angrily. "Don't I think o you and the children?"
"Not as you should," answered Ruth calmly. "Not by no means. We should come first. Four of them now—and twenty-two bob to keep em on. Tain't in reason."
She faced him with calm and resolute eyes.
"And it mustn't happen again, Ern," she said. "See, it's too much. Nobody's fault but your own."
Ernie went out in sullen mood, and for the first time since the smash turned into the Star. He had not been there many minutes when a navvy, clouded with liquor, leaned over and inquired friendly how his barstards were.
Ern set down his mug.
"What's this then?" he asked, very still.
The fellow leaned forward, leering, a great hand plaistered on either knee.
"Don't you know what a bloody barstard is?" he asked. He was too drunk to be afraid; too drunk to be accountable. Ernie dealt with him as a doctor deals with a refractory invalid—patiently.
"Who's been sayin it?" he asked.