The Major spent, on the whole, an enjoyable Sunday. He lay in bed till a little after twelve o'clock, with a second-hand copy of the Sporting Times, and a tin of tobacco beside him. They dined at about one o'clock, and he managed to get a little spirit to drink with his meal. He had walked out—not very far—with Gertie in the afternoon, and had managed by representing himself as having walked seven miles—he was determined not to risk anything by foolishly cutting it too fine—to obtain a little more. They had tea about six, and ate, each of them, a kippered herring and some watercress. Then about seven o'clock Frank suddenly walked in and sat down.
"Give me something to eat and drink," he said.
He looked, indeed, extraordinarily strained and tired, and sat back on the upturned box by the fireplace as if in exhaustion. He explained presently when Gertie had cooked another herring, and he had drunk a slop-basinful of tea, that he had walked fasting since breakfast, but he said nothing about the priest. The Major with an air of great preciseness measured out half a finger of whisky and insisted, with the air of a paternal doctor, upon his drinking it immediately.
"And now a cigarette, for God's sake," said Frank. "By the way, I've got some work for to-morrow."
"That's first-rate, my boy," said the Major. "I've been working myself this week."
Frank produced his fourpence and laid it on the corner of the table.
"That's for supper and bed to-night," he said.
"Nonsense, my boy; put it back in your pocket."
"Kindly take that fourpence," remarked Frank. "You can add some breakfast to-morrow, if you like."