"Why did he wave his hand to me this mornin', Joe?" she said, more than once; "he didn't use to do that!"
"Oh, he just saw you at the window, mother," I answered her, "and perhaps he thought you were a bit 'touched' at his not fancying his breakfast."
"No, Joe," she cried quite sharply; "me 'touched'—with him—never! He knew better."
"Touched" was, of course, our local word for offended.
Then would mother knit a while, and run again to the door to listen.
"I thought I heard him!" she said. "I am nearly sure."
And there came a kind of white joy upon her face, curious in such a naturally rosy woman with cheeks like apples. But it was only some of the van horses moving restlessly or scraping their bedding in the stables.
Now our house with its big, bricked yard, and all the different out-buildings—stores, coal-sheds, salt-pens, granaries, oil-cake house and cellars, occupied quite a big quadrangle. At the corner was Bob McKinstrey's room, through which was the only entrance excepting by the big gate. Bob had two doors, one opening out on a narrow lane, called Stye Alley, where poor people had kept pigs before my father and the local authority had made them clear off.
On the other side, Bob's room looked into the yard, so that he could see at night that all was right. He could also enter the stable by a little side door, of which he alone had the key—that is, of course, excepting my father's master key, which he always carried about with him.
Now I had locked the big double gate myself—the one by which the lorries and vans went and came. I had pushed home the bars. I had even gone round to see that Bob had closed his door behind him. The lock was a self-acting one, but Bob was apt to be careless.