He got the load on his back, and lowering his head, steered for the barn. At the door an old man advanced, as if to help.
“Don’t bother! Show me where to dump the stuff,” Kit gasped.
After a moment or two he threw down his load and straightened his back. The meal stuck to his wet coat, and his soft hat was crushed and marked by a grey patch. Kit laughed, smoothed his hat, and turned to the farmer. Tyson was tall, but his shoulders were bent. His hair was white and his brown face was lined, and Kit thought him a typical dalesman: the older dalesfolk were not cultivated, but they were shrewd, laborious, independent and frugal. Tyson gave him his hand.
“You were kind to our lass, Mr. Carson, and you’re varra welcome. Gan to hoose. I’se wait for Jim.”
Jim arrived with another bag and Kit crossed the yard. Alison was at the back porch. Her color was rather high, but she gave Kit a level, inquiring glance, and he knew he must explain his arrival.
“I expect you’re puzzled, and perhaps you’re sympathetic,” he remarked with a smile. “Looks as if I’d got fired?”
“No,” said Alison quietly. “Had the company turned you down, you would not have come back. You have built the tanks!”
“To feel somebody believes in you is comforting,” said Kit. “The first tank is built, and when the manager ordered me to put up the lot I felt I was entitled to take a holiday. I think that’s all. I did not expect to see you; Jim stated you were visiting friends.”
He imagined Alison knew it was all he dared talk about, but the look she gave him was strange and searching.
“I started for a farm across the hills, but the storm was bad and the water was on the road,” she said. “But my aunts want to see you and I must get supper.”