‘That’s us!’ said Abner, throwing down his shovel.
‘I’ve a letter from the boss,’ said the clerk, ‘orders to cut down the wage-bill on this job. We’ve got to sack all supernumerary hands—those that aren’t regular, that is—so we shan’t need you two after Saturday week. That gives you ten clear days’ warning to look about you.’
‘Right you are, gaffer!’ said Abner.
The clerk went blundering on to another trench, having ticked off two names on his list.
‘Well, Joe,’ said Abner. ‘What about it, my son?’
‘I dunno, Ab,’ said Munn dolefully. ‘Back to bleedin’ old Brum, I reckon. That’s about the ticket. I wouldn’t have had this happen not for a bit! I shall never find another lodge like old Mrs Taylor’s. She’s been a mother to me, that woman! What are you going to do?’
‘Stay on here, Joe,’ said Abner. ‘Pick up another job somewhere.’
‘That’s right enough for you,’ said Munn. ‘I can’t go farmerin’ an’ all.’
‘Right enough is it?’ Abner laughed. ‘You wait and see!’
The siren sounded, and Connor came along the trench whistling jauntily as he always did when he was up against it.