“He’s ill,” said William. “He couldn’t come. I’ve been keepin’ shop for you. I’ve done the best I could.” He looked round the rifled shop and hastened to propitiate the owner as far as possible. “I’ve got some money for you,” he added soothingly, pointing to the four pennies that represented his morning’s takings. “It’s not much,” he went on with some truth, looking again at the rows of emptied boxes and half-emptied bottles and the débris that is always and everywhere the inevitable result of a battle. But Mr. Moss hardly seemed to notice it.
“Thanks, William,” he said almost humbly. “William, she’s took me. She’s goin’ ter marry me. Isn’t it grand? After all these years!”
“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a mess,” said William, returning to the more important matter.
Mr. Moss waved aside his apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, William,” he said. “Nothing matters to-day. She’s took me at last. I’m goin’ to shut shop this afternoon and go over to her again. Thanks for staying, William.”
“Not at all. Don’t menshun it,” said William nobly. Then, “I think I’ve had enough of that bein’ p’lite. Will one mornin’ do for this year, d’you think?”
“Er—yes. Well, I’ll shut up. Don’t you stay, William. You’ll want to be getting home for lunch.”
Lunch? Quite definitely William decided that he did not want any lunch. The very thought of lunch brought with it a feeling of active physical discomfort which was much more than mere absence of hunger. He decided to go home as quickly as possible, though not to lunch.
“Goo’-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Moss.