“Wot’s that?” demanded Richard’s neighbour. Then: “‘R—I see, said the blind man!’ ackerbats—lot o’ use to us blindies, that. Funny idea o’ givin’ us pleasure some people ’ave: one old geezer, she came ter take me out fer the day in a kerridge an’ all. ‘Wot-o!’ sez I to myself. An’—are you listening’, you?”—with a nudge—“an’ she took me three times to Church afore she brought me back in the evenin’!”
Richard ducked his head in a smother of laughter; the enormous eye rolled mournfully in his direction had been so pregnant of disgust.
“Three times to Church, an’ no lollies. An’ me ’elpless. Some people——” words failed him. He fumbled precariously with a cigarette and a lighted match, quite matter-of-fact over his handicap. “That all right?” shaking the match to and fro and dropping it still alight; Richard’s foot shot out, stealthily.... “’Ave one? they give us plenty. Yus, when she come again, I was in ’iding, betcherlife. Scout warned me. ‘That pore well-be’aved young man anywhere about?’ sez she to Sister; but Sister was a sport and didn’t let on. So she just took a look round at me pals: ‘Are they all quite blind?’ sez she; ‘Yus, but they ain’t deaf,’ sez Sister, quick as ’ell. ’R well, s’pose ’er idea of ’appiness ain’t mine; she did ’er best.”
“What does make you happy?”
The reply was brief and to the point: “Taxis an’ cuddlin’.”
... It was not until the last turn of all, a Chinese conjuror, that Richard found his companion’s attention sufficiently astray from the stage to permit him to put a question that had lately nagged for an answer from its source. “I say—what made you join up?”
“Looked as though ’Is Majesty wos invitin’ specially me to a private picnic. An’ I sez: With pleasure!... Yus, an’ then I woke up, an’ found one of my eyes gone West, an’ t’other deaf-an’-dumb. Well, I’m not saying nuffing to that; wot’s done is done, an’ ’ad ter be done by someone, an’ Government’s paying me ’ansome for the rest o’ my life; but when it comes to putting me to a job——” again a large disgusted eye appealed to Richard for sympathy. “Work? not ’alf! And the other chaps is that keen they makes an awkward president.”
“What?”
“President. Same as setting an example, only not quite. But you just see what me mother thinks abaht it.” He fumbled in his pockets, pulled out two or three crumpled letters, and thrust them into Richard’s hand. “Read ’em.”
The main point of the letters was clear: Harold’s old mother passionately advised Harold not to work—thank God there was plenty while she and father could live and work for him; plenty afterwards too—“I will see to that, son, so don’t you bother to learn a trade. Well, son, never mind about your sight, that don’t matter to us; at any rate your not one as had cold feet. There’ll always be plenty for you, so don’t you let them make you learn nothing you don’t want, darling——”