“We get up at five o’clock,” broke in the old woman.
“You don’t say so. I always thought there was little farm work to be done in winter. You don’t seem to take advantage of your slack time.”
“There’s lots to do.” And she ran through a list of duties.
“Do you feel the war as much as we do in town? How are you off for food?”
“We manage all right.”
“Well, we don’t. We’re chemists in an ammunition factory, and we’re worked to death and don’t get much to eat. There’s nothing one can buy. We applied for a holiday, being tired of the everlasting long hours, and got three weeks. A bit too late for Muller, here. He oughtn’t to have come, feeling as he did.”
The coffee was brewed, and bread, butter, and a plate of cut sausage were on the table. Both of us went at it cheerfully. In the middle of the meal the fourth girl, the eldest, came in, and the boy and his two sisters left. This was about half-past nine.
When I had an opportunity, I whispered to Wallace: “We’ve got to get away from here soon after eleven. Play up.” Then I addressed him aloud: “What do you think we’d better do?”
“I hardly know. I feel pretty rotten still.”