"Do you want this work at all, Tom Chaplin?" asked his wife.
She could not see that just lounging about the dock gates, walking up and down, speaking occasionally to the policeman, taking with a smile some ugly epithet thrown at them by the dock foreman who might be passing, was by any means so important as her husband seemed to think, and she was more angry with him than ever she had been in her life before.
Tears of vexation stood in her eyes as she turned to go home again, and as she went by the mission room she thought she would go in and see if Miss Lavender was there, to tell her what had happened, and how her husband was neglecting this opportunity of benefiting all of them.
The lady heard the poor woman's story, and could well sympathize with her impatience at what seemed like her husband's apathy. But having done so, she said, "He could not have left his post without leave from those who placed him there. You see it is not every man who could be trusted to do such duty, for these pickets must be careful, steady men. No, no, Mrs. Chaplin, he could not leave such a post as that for anything," added the lady.
"And yet he may lose a good chance of work through it," said the poor woman with a gasp.
"We must take care he does not do that," said the lady. "I will write a telegram and give you the money to send it to the country." And as she spoke, the lady took a pencil from her pocket, and wrote on the leaf of her pocket-book:
"Chaplin will come to-morrow—cannot leave post of duty."
"There, that will be enough, if the gentleman is a reasonable man," she said. "Now go and get the address, and send it off." And she gave her the message and a shilling as she spoke.
Mrs. Chaplin was not long performing her errand, and felt greatly relieved when it was done.
Chaplin came home soon after four, very tired but full of eager expectation.