“Mistake to ’ave a boy in so young,” said Mr. Mergleson.
“It’s all very awkward,” said Mr. Darling, surveying every aspect of the case. “You see—. ’Is mother sets a most estrordinary value on ’im. Most estrordinary.”
“I don’t know whether she oughtn’t to be told,” said Mr. Mergleson. “I was thinking of that.”
Mr. Darling was not the sort of man to meet trouble half-way. He shook his head at that. “Not yet, Mr. Mergleson. I don’t think yet. Not until everything’s been tried. I don’t think there’s any need to give her needless distress,—none whatever. If you don’t mind I think I’ll come up to-night—nineish say—and ’ave a talk to you and Thomas about it—a quiet talk. Best to begin with a quiet talk. It’s a dashed rum go, and me and you we got to think it out a bit.”
“That’s what I think,” said Mr. Mergleson with unconcealed relief at Mr. Darling’s friendliness. “That’s exactly the light, Mr. Darling, in which it appears to me. Because, you see—if ’e’s all right and in the ’ouse, why doesn’t ’e come for ’is vittels?”
§ 2
In the pantry that evening the question of telling someone was discussed further. It was discussed over a number of glasses of Mr. Mergleson’s beer. For, following a sound tradition, Mr. Mergleson brewed at Shonts, and sometimes he brewed well and sometimes he brewed ill, and sometimes he brewed weak and sometimes he brewed strong, and there was no monotony in the cups at Shonts. This was sturdy stuff and suited Mr. Darling’s mood, and ever and again with an author’s natural weakness and an affectation of abstraction Mr. Mergleson took the jug out empty and brought it back foaming.
Henry, the second footman, was disposed to a forced hopefulness so as not to spoil the evening, but Thomas was sympathetic and distressed. The red-haired youth made cigarettes with a little machine, licked them and offered them to the others, saying little, as became him. Etiquette deprived him of an uninvited beer, and Mr. Mergleson’s inattention completed what etiquette began.
“I can’t bear to think of the poor little beggar, stuck head foremost into some cobwebby cranny, blowed if I can,” said Thomas, getting help from the jug.
“He was an interesting kid,” said Thomas in a tone that was frankly obituary. “He didn’t like his work, one could see that, but he was lively—and I tried to help him along all I could, when I wasn’t too busy myself.”