“Then,” he said thoughtfully, “you have to walk more than two miles each way.”
“All that,” said Tuvvy—“more like three.”
He bent over his work, and Dennis sat silent and rather despondent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. There was so little chance for Tuvvy, if he really could not pass the Cross Keys without being “drawed in.” There seemed nothing more to say. Presently, however, Tuvvy himself continued the conversation.
“Night’s the worst,” he said, “and winter worse nor any. It’s mortal cold working here all day, and a man’s spirit’s pretty nigh freezed out of him by the time work’s done. And then there’s the tramp home, and long before I get to the village, I see the light behind the red blind at the Cross Keys. It streams out into the road, and it says: ‘Tuvvy,’ it says, ‘it’s warm in here, and you’re cold. There’s light in here, and a bit of talk, and a newspaper; and outside it’s all dark and lonesome, and a good long stretch to Upwell. Come in, and have a drop to cheer you up. You don’t need to stop more’n five minutes.’ And then—”
Tuvvy stopped, raised his black eyebrows, and shook his head.
“Well?” said Dennis.
“Well, master,” repeated Tuvvy, “then I go in.”
“And do you come out in five minutes?” asked Dennis.
Tuvvy shook his head again: “It’s the red blind as draws me in,” he said, “and once I’m in, I stay there.”
“Mr Tuvvy,” said Dennis, after a pause, with renewed hope in his voice, “I’ve thought of something. Why don’t you go home across the fields? You wouldn’t have to pass the Cross Keys then, you see, and wouldn’t see the red blind, and it couldn’t draw you in.”