“I shouldn’t go out again today if I were you,” said Nora, noticing how ill he looked. “You should stay at home and read, or write up those minutes.”
The minutes referred to were those of the last meeting of the local branch of the Painters’ Society, of which Owen was the secretary, and as the snow continued to fall, he occupied himself after dinner in the manner his wife suggested, until four o’clock, when Frankie returned from school bringing with him a large snowball, and crying out as a piece of good news that the snow was still falling heavily, and that he believed it was freezing!
They went to bed very early that night, for it was necessary to economize the coal, and not only that, but—because the rooms were so near the roof—it was not possible to keep the place warm no matter how much coal was used. The fire seemed, if anything, to make the place colder, for it caused the outer air to pour in through the joints of the ill-fitting doors and windows.
Owen lay awake for the greater part of the night. The terror of the future made rest or sleep impossible. He got up very early the next morning—long before it was light—and after lighting the fire, set about preparing the samples he had mentioned to Nora, but found that it would not be possible to do much in this direction without buying more cardboard, for most of what he had was not in good condition.
They had bread and butter and tea for breakfast. Frankie had his in bed and it was decided to keep him away from school until after dinner because the weather was so very cold and his only pair of boots were so saturated with moisture from having been out in the snow the previous day.
“I shall make a few inquiries to see if there’s any other work to be had before I buy the cardboard,” said Owen, “although I’m afraid it’s not much use.”
Just as he was preparing to go out, the front door bell rang, and as he was going down to answer it he saw Bert White coming upstairs. The boy was carrying a flat, brown-paper parcel under his arm.
“A corfin plate,” he explained as he arrived at the door. “Wanted at once—Misery ses you can do it at ’ome, an’ I’ve got to wait for it.”
Owen and his wife looked at each other with intense relief. So he was not to be dismissed after all. It was almost too good to be true.
“There’s a piece of paper inside the parcel with the name of the party what’s dead,” continued Bert, “and here’s a little bottle of Brunswick black for you to do the inscription with.”