Ernie crossed the brickfields, passed his old school where the children were singing the evening hymn, under the church upon the Kneb, through what the old inhabitants still called Ox-steddle Bottom, where once his father had pointed out to him the remains of Roman byres.
The office was in Borough Lane.
Mrs. Pigott had warned her husband by telephone.
Ernie therefore was shown into the inner sanctum at once.
Mr. Pigott, grizzled now, but with the old almost aggressive air of integrity, summed his erstwhile pupil up with the eyes of the appraising schoolmaster.
"It's the old Ernie. I see that," he grunted. "So Alf's been playing it up already. You needn't tell me. He's a masterpiece, that young man. Even she admits that." He paused and began again, confidential and communicative like one naughty boy whispering to another. "What d'ye think of her? She's church—more shame to her. But I forgive her. I forgive her a lot. You have to when you're married to em—as you'll find some day. And what I don't forgive I pass by. For why?—If I didn't she'd sauce me." He suddenly became aware that he was being indiscreet, even undignified, and broke off gruffly—"Well, what did they teach you in the Army?"
Ernie laughed.
"It's not so bad as they make out, sir. I like the old Regiment well enough."
"They tell me," said Mr. Pigott solemnly, "that in South Africa none of the unpopular officers came home—and they weren't shot by the Boers!"
"It depends on the Regiment, I expect," replied Ernie. "There's not much of that in the Hammer-men. Our officers were mostly all right. More gentlemen than most, from what I could see of it. They were sports, and they tried to be just. Of course there wasn't none of em like dad—only the Colonel. Hadn't the education. But some of these snotty little jumped-ups like what they had in the Welsh Liverpools that lay alongside us in Pindi ... Why I wouldn't salute em if I met em in the lines."