“Reckon it’s always ‘good-bye’ now,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Good-bye to Ivy, good-bye to Nell, good-bye to Tom—sims as if, as if that ward ud git lik my oald broom, wore out from overuse.”
“Thur’d be no good-byes if thur hadn’t bin howdy-dos fust. So cheer up, mother, and we’ll be saying howdy-do agaun before Michaelmas.”
“And then good-bye. Oh, Tom, when ull this tedious war have done?”
“When it’s finished. Doan’t you fret over that, mother—reckon that aun’t your job.”
“I wish it ud have done, though, before our hearts are broke.”
Nell was expected home that evening, and Mrs. Beatup persuaded Tom to wait for her. He spent the interval going over the farm with Harry, and giving last advice, though it was astonishing how firm on his legs his brother now stood. He also took his chance of a straight talk with Zacky.
“Reckon you’re growing up lik a young colt, and you’ll have to taake your turn now—step into Harry’s plaace saum as he stepped into mine.”
Zacky’s besetting sin was not a lust for adventure in woods and distant fields; he moved in a more humdrum circle of dereliction—marbles and conkers and worms and string. However, Tom discovered that he had a passion for “taking things to pieces” and hoped to inspire him to zeal over the new mechanical reaper which was that year to be the wonder of Worge’s harvest.
To everyone’s disappointment, Nell did not arrive in a cab. She came on foot from Senlac station, leaving her box to follow by the carrier. Mrs. Beatup felt that Tom had been cheated, on his last day at home, of a fine spectacular entertainment, and was inclined to be peevish with Nell on his account.
“Reckon it wurn’t your husband who told you to walk six mile in the dust.”