“I got some good water,” he informs me. “You ain’t got no water, ’ave ee?” And he toddles away for more.
He delights in the filthiest old can or bottle. He loves to kneel down and see the water bubbling in. Sometimes it is a “cup of tea” he has got, or a “glass of beer.” And always he has “got this one.”
He appears to be wandering about at all hours of the day and night. The life of a recluse in a cottage, remote from ordinary life, has its moments of exaltation, especially in the lovely months of spring and summer, but when the wind sways the leafless trees and whirls the cold rain, it is hard to prevent melancholy. On these occasions I go and have a chat with Ernie’s parents, my immediate neighbours. Often I find Ernie asleep at the table, with his curls in the empty plate. The little imp has been all day in the water, or on a long tour in his motor, and has fallen asleep from exhaustion. He breathes quietly, his mouth droops.
“Poor lill chap, he’m be tired,” says Ernie’s father; “dear lill boy, he’m be.”
It is always the same tender remark. No wonder Ernie loves his father. But this does not prevent the most savage quarrelling sometimes. Then through the wall I hear him yelling,—
“Dawbake!—dawbake!—dawbake!”
And his father’s threat (it never materialises into action), “Naughty boy, swearin’! Ah’ll tell plicemun!”
“Dawbake!—dawbake!—dawbake!” yells Ernie.
“Ee shouldn’t speak tew ees feyther like that.”
“Dawbake!” moans Ernie, and hides his curly head at father’s knees.