“They said as how I wurn’t really indispensable, faather being able-bodied and having two lads besides me, and two ‘hands’”—he laughed bitterly. “I’d like to show ’em the ‘hands’—two scarecrows, you might say.”
“It’s a sad world,” remarked Thyrza comfortably.
Mrs. Honey was a widow, but never had more than a sentimental sigh for her husband who had made her miserable, and then suddenly rather proud—on that last day of October when the Royal Sussex had held the road to Sussex against the fury of the Prussian Guard, and Sam Honey died to save the home he had made so unhappy while he lived. He had died bravely and she was proud of him, but he had lived meanly and she could not regret him.
“Wot sort of a soldier d’you think I’ll make, Mrs. Honey?”
“A good one, surelye”—and she showed him teeth like curd.
“I’m naun so sure, though. I’m a farmer bred, and the life ull be middling strange to me.”
“Maybe you’ll lik it. Sam liked it fine. There was no end o’ fun to be had, he said, and foakes all giving you chocolate and woodbines, just as if you wur the king.”
“Will you send me a postcard now and agaun, Mrs. Honey?”
“Reckon I will.”
There was silence for a minute or two in the shop. The oil lamp swung, moving the shadows over the ceiling where the beams sagged with the weight of Thyrza’s little bedroom. A clock in the back room ticked loudly. Tom was still leaning across the counter, looking at Thyrza. They both felt rather awkward, as they often felt in each other’s company. Thyrza wondered when Tom was going. She liked him—liked him unaccountable—but her bit of supper was on the fire in the next room, there was some mending to be done, and many other odds and ends of feminine business before it was time to set the mouse-traps, put the milk-jug on the doorstep, and go to bed. Besides, she knew he ought to be going back to Worge to tell his family the news which should have been theirs before he brought it to her.