"Ern!" whispered Alf, and jerked his head significantly. "You'd best come."
Anne Caspar slipped on a wrap. Candle in hand she descended the stairs and entered the kitchen.
Alf followed stealthily. Like a gnome he stood in the shadow at the foot of the stairs, biting his nails uneasily, as he watched with lewd, malignant eyes.
Ern sat at the table with the dreadful blind face of the living dead.
He saw his mother enter and paid no heed to her. He was too much occupied. A troubled look crossed his face, and clouded it. Then he was very sick.
That amused Alf.
His mother shut the kitchen-door.
But Alf was not to be defrauded of his spectacle.
He opened the door quietly.
His mother, busy on her knees, with a slop pail and cloth, looked up.