‘Well, our Abner,’ he cried, when he recognised him, ‘how goes it? I thought you’d left these parts long ago. What have you been up to?’
‘Farm-labouring, up at The Dyke,’ Abner told him.
‘That’s a poor game,’ said the Gunner, shaking his head.
‘Don’t I know it!’ said Abner. ‘I’ve just finished with it. . . Can’t you give us a job here?’
‘No, my son . . . nor any one else,’ said the Gunner. ‘We’re just clearing up like. I’ve got ten men of the old gang left, but in another week we shall have finished the lot. Don’t you imagine I’m sorry for it either. I’ve had enough of Mainstone to last me for a bit.’
‘Well, I’ve got to get a job somehow,’ said Abner.
‘Then you won’t get it here. This place is dead, my son, and that’s the truth! You’d best get back to dear old Brum. Or Coventry, that’s the place for you. Everybody’s going mad on these here motor-cars the same as they did on bicycles. Coventry’s your ticket!’
He gave the children a red-cheeked apple apiece. Abner bade him good-night and turned homewards.
‘Did you hear about our wedding at the Pound House?’ the foreman shouted after him. ‘Whisky? You could have swum in it! Pity old Mick wasn’t about.’
It was dusk when Abner reached Wolfpits.