“What did you do?”
“We just gibbered at each other across the counter for a moment, I believe—and I never saw a face so horror-stricken! Then he turned and fled, leaving his penny behind him. Poor boy—I gave it to Susan to return to him.”
“Didn’t you ever make friends with any of them, Mrs. Hunt?” Norah asked.
“Oh yes! when we had time, or when they had. But often one was on the rush for every minute of our four-hour shifts.”
“Jolly good of you,” said Jim.
“Good gracious, no! It was a very poor sort of war-work, but busy mothers with only one maid couldn’t manage more. And I loved it, especially in Cork: the Irish boys were dears, and so keen. I had a great respect for those boys. The lads who enlisted in England had all their chums doing the same thing, and everybody patted them on the back and said how noble they were, and gave them parties and speeches and presents. But the Irish boys enlisted, very often, dead against the wishes of their own people, and against their priest—and you’ve got to live in Ireland to know what that means.”
“The wonder to me was, always, the number of Irishmen who did enlist,” said Major Hunt. “And aren’t they fighters!”
“They must be great,” Jim said. “You should hear our fellows talk about the Dublins and the Munsters in Gallipoli.” His face clouded: it was a grievous matter to Jim that he had not been with those other Australian boys who had already made the name of Anzac ring through the world.
“Yes, you must be very proud of your country,” Mrs. Hunt said, with her charming smile. “I tell my husband that we must emigrate there after the war. It must be a great place in which to bring up children, judging by all the Australians one sees.”
“Possibly—but a man with a damaged hand isn’t wanted there,” Major Hunt said curtly.