“He weer as reight as reight. It was all them turning off the scape-yokes.”
“And Missus forgetting to tell Martha about not lighting the fire.”
“And if he’d only get well again,” sobbed Martha, wiping her eyes, “the biler might be busted once a week, and not a word would I say.”
“No,” sighed Bruff giving his ale another twist round and slowly pouring it down his throat. “There’s a rose tree in the garden as he budded hisself, though I always pretended it was one of my doing, and sorry I am now.”
“Ah,” sighed Martha, “we all repents when it’s too late.”
Pop!
A cinder flew out of the fire on to the strip of carpet lying across the hearth, and a pungent odour of burning wool arose. But Bruff stooped down and using his hardened fingers as tongs, picked up the cinder and tossed it inside the fender.
Martha started as the cinder flew out and looked aghast at Eliza, her ruddy face growing mottled, while the housemaid’s cheeks were waxen as the maids gave themselves up to the silly superstition that, like many more, does not die hard but absolutely refuses to die at all.
“Oh, my poor dear!” cried Martha, sobbing aloud, while Eliza buried her face in her apron, and the reason thereof suddenly began to dawn upon Bruff, who turned to the fireplace again, stooped down and carefully picked up the exploded bubble of coke and gas, turned it over two or three times, and then by a happy inspiration giving it a shake and producing a tiny tinkling noise.
Bruff’s face expanded into a grin.