And as day succeeded day he ventured further afield; he went in search of milk, eggs and vegetables, but he only found young nettles, which he brought home and helped to eat when they had been boiled over a wood fire. They were all glad to eat nettles, and were the better for them. Occasionally he met women on these excursions, and stayed to talk to them. Always they had the same tale to tell—their men were dead, and themselves dying of starvation.
One day at the beginning of June he went as far as Petersham, and there at the door of a farmhouse he saw a fine, tall young woman. She was such a contrast to the women he usually met on his expeditions that he paused and regarded her with curiosity.
“What do you want?” asked the young woman, suspiciously.
“I suppose you ’aven’t any milk or butter or eggs to sell?” asked Gosling.
“Sell?” echoed the girl, contemptuously. “What ’ave you got to give us as is worth food?”
“Well, money,” replied Gosling.
“Money!” came the echo again. “What’s the good of money when there’s nothing to buy with it? I wouldn’t sell you eggs at a pound apiece.”
Gosling scratched his beard—it looked quite like a beard by this time. “Rum go, ain’t it?” he asked, and smiled.
His new acquaintance looked him up and down, and then smiled in return, “You’re right,” she said. “You’re the first man I’ve seen since father died, a month back.”
“’Oo’s livin’ with you?” asked Gosling, pointing to the house.