He pushed back his chair, straddled his knees with a downward jerk, to get them free, in horsy fashion, and went to the fire. Still he did not go out of the room; he was curious to know what the others would do or say. He began to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying, in a high, affected voice:
“Going wi’ me? Going wi’ me are ter? Tha’rt goin’ further than tha counts on just now, dost hear?”
The dog faintly wagged its tail, the man stuck out his jaw and covered his pipe with his hands, and puffed intently, losing himself in the tobacco, looking down all the while at the dog with an absent brown eye. The dog looked up at him in mournful distrust. Joe stood with his knees stuck out, in real horsy fashion.
“Have you had a letter from Lucy?” Fred Henry asked of his sister.
“Last week,” came the neutral reply.
“And what does she say?”
There was no answer.
“Does she ask you to go and stop there?” persisted Fred Henry.
“She says I can if I like.”
“Well, then, you’d better. Tell her you’ll come on Monday.”