“Jacky,” she said, calling him back.
“Yes, mum.”
“Don’t you dare to say a word about what it’s for.”
“No, mum.”
Jacky went off round by his tool-shed, out into the street, and down to the foundry gates, where, after a word with the gateman, he went on across the great metal-strewn yard in search of Mrs Glaire’s sturdy foreman.
Meanwhile that lady caught up her dog, and carried him to a garden seat, where, upon being set down, he curled up and went to sleep, his tail and ears combined, making a comfortable coverlid. Then taking off her scissors and placing them in her basket, Mrs Glaire seated herself, sighing deeply, and taking out from a voluminous pocket, which took sundry evolutions with drapery to reach, a great ball of lambswool and a couple of knitting pins, she began to knit rapidly what was intended to be some kind of undergarment for her only son.
“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she muttered; “you’ll break my heart before you’ve done.”
The knitting pins clicked loudly, and a couple of bright tears stole down her cheeks and dropped into her lap.
“And I did not tell him to hold his tongue before Eve,” she exclaimed, sharply. “Tut-tut—tut-tut! This must be stopped; this must be stopped.”
The sighing, lamenting phase gave place by degrees to an angry one. The pins clicked sharply, and the pleasant grey head was perked, while the lips were tightened together even as were the stitches in the knitting, which had to be all undone.