‘What’s the matter, lad?’ he asked, in a tone between concern and impatience.
‘Nothing,’ said Paul.
‘Why is’t ye’re here alaun?’ his father demanded ‘And whaur have ye been the livelong day? And what are ye cryin’ for?
‘Nothing,’ said Paul again.
‘Ye’re not such a fule,’ said Armstrong, ‘as to be cryin’ an’ hidin’ for naething, an’ I’m not such a fule as to believe it.’
He paused, but Paul made no reply. The old man struck a lucifer match and lit the gas. The boy stood blinking in the light, his face stained with tears, his eyelids red and a little swollen. To the father’s eye he looked sullen and defiant Of course he was neither, but he was entirely hopeless of being understood, and therefore helpless to explain.
‘Noo, Paul,’ said Armstrong, with a severity which he felt to be justified, ‘I’m goin’ to the bottom o’ this business. Ye’ve absented yourself the haul day from the House o’ God. Ye’ve not been seen since morning’s light, and it’s nigh-hand on midnight Whaur have ye been? Answer me that at once, sir.’
‘In the Hoarstone Fields,’ said Paul.
‘And wha’s been with ye, helping ye to desecrate God’s day?’
‘Nobody, father. I’ve been by myself all the while.’