THEY sat hand in hand on the bench by the duck pond until the shadows began to lengthen along the valley of the Sharrow. For quite a long time they didn’t speak, but at last their reverie was broken by the sight of a dusty figure with a sack on its back shambling along the road towards them. It was the village postman.
“Who’s bought the cottage opposite?” the Corporal asked.
“Zur?” said the postman.
The Corporal repeated his question.
“They do sey, zur,” said the postman in slow, impressive Doric, “the Mayor o’ Blackhampton has bought it.”
“What—Alderman Munt?” The voice of the Corporal was full of dismay.
“The Mayor o’ Blackhampton, zur. Come here the other day in a motey car to look at it. Large big genelman in a white hat.”
The heart of the Corporal sank. What the hell had he, of all people, to go buying it for! Somehow the postman had shattered the queer sad little world in which they sat. A feeling of desperation came suddenly upon the Corporal. He rose abruptly from the bench. “Come on, Mother,” he said, “if we don’t get along we’ll be late for supper.”
“Don’t want no supper, Bill.”
But the Corporal was firm.