“I expect it’s that boy,” said Maggie, almost angrily.
“Not Georgie?”
“Yes. I wish you’d go and stop him. You’ve no idea what a tiresome little thing he is. And so rough too!”
This attitude of Maggie towards the mysterious nephew was a surprise for Edwin. She had never grumbled about him before. In fact they had seen little of him. For a fortnight he had not been abroad, and the rumour ran that he was unwell, that he was ‘not so strong as he ought to be.’ And now Maggie suddenly charged him with a whole series of misdoings! But it was Maggie’s way to keep unpleasant things from Edwin for a time, in order to save her important brother from being worried, and then in a moment of tension to fling them full in his face, like a wet clout.
“What’s he been up to?” Edwin inquired for details.
“Oh! I don’t know,” answered Maggie vaguely. At the same instant came another startling blow on the window. “There!” Maggie cried, in triumph, as if saying: “That’s what he’s been up to!” After all, the windows were Maggie’s own windows.
Edwin left on the sofa a whole pile of books that he was sorting, and went out into the garden. On the top of the wall separating him from the Orgreaves a row of damaged earthenware objects—jugs and jars chiefly—at once caught his eye. He witnessed the smashing of one of them, and then he ran to the wall, and taking a spring, rested on it with his arms, his toes pushed into crevices. Young George, with hand outstretched to throw, in the garden of the Orgreaves, seemed rather diverted by this apparition.
“Hello!” said Edwin. “What are you up to?”
“I’m practising breaking crocks,” said the child. That he had acquired the local word gave Edwin pleasure.
“Yes, but do you know you’re practising breaking my windows too? When you aim too high you simply can’t miss one of my windows.”