“Can you tell me the nearest way to Yorkshire?”
The man seemed to give himself a shake, as though he were trying to wake up. He held out his hand to Bunchy, who placed his own in it confidingly; then he drew the child toward him and set him on his knee, asking:
“Why do you want to go to Yorkshire, old chap?”
“Because Pussy is there and I am so lonely,” Bunchy’s voice broke. “I went into her room, and I saw her shoes—the ones with the curly heels—and they made me want her so bad. They’re such tall heels.”
“She had such little feet,” murmured the man.
And Bunchy saw that he had gone to sleep again, so he sat very still for a minute or two, then he said mournfully:
“I’m so lonely!”
“So am I,” said the man. “My Pussy has gone to sleep. She is not coming back any more. She is sleeping under the heather here.”
Bunchy felt the man’s shoulder heave as he leant against him, but he said nothing. He felt that this was not a time to talk of something else; this sorryness was something beyond him; so he stroked the man’s face with a soft, sticky little hand, and the corners of his mouth drooped, but he did not feel quite so lonely.
The man seemed to like the feel of the little hand, for he bent his head, and, laying his cheek against Bunchy’s, said in a queer broken voice: