“I fancy they do, Wickes. But all the same, I don't wonder that they grouch a bit.”
“'Tis not the grumbling, sir, I deplore,” said Wickes, “if they would only work, or let the machines work. That's the trouble, sir. Why, sir, when I came to your father, sir, we never looked at the clock, we kept our minds on the work.”
“How long ago, Wickes?”
“Thirty-one years, sir, come next Michaelmas. And glad I was to get the job, too. You see, sir, I had just come to the country, and with the missus and a couple of kids—”
“Thirty-one years! Great Caesar! And you've worked at this desk for thirty-one years! And what have you got out of it?”
“Well, sir, not what you might call a terrible lot. I hadn't the eddication for much, as you might say—but—well, there's my little home, and we've lived happy there, the missus and me, and the kids—at least, till the war came.” The old man paused abruptly.
“You're right, Wickes, by Jove,” exclaimed Jack, starting from his seat and gripping the old man's hand. “You have made a lot out of it—and you gave as fine a boy as ever stepped in uniform to your country. We were all proud of Stephen, every man of us.”
“I know that, sir, and he often wrote the wife about you, sir, which we don't forget, sir. Of course, it's hard on her and the boys—just coming up to be somethin' at the school.”
“By the way, Wickes, how are they doing? Two of them, aren't there? Let's see—there's Steve, he's the eldest—”
“No, sir, he's the youngest, sir. Robert is the eldest—fourteen, and quite clever at his books. Pity he's got to quit just now.”