“Out ratting,” Zacky informed him.
“Well, he woan’t find any supper’s bin kept fur him, that’s all,” said Mrs. Beatup, rising and pushing back her chair. “Nell, put the plaates on the tray and maake yourself useful fur wunst.”
A flush crept over Nell’s pale, pretty face, from her neck to the roots of her reddish hair. She gingerly picked up two of the smelly, greasy plates, then quickly put them down again.
“There’s faather.”
“Where?” Mrs. Beatup listened.
“I heard the gate—and there goes the side door.”
The next minute a heavy, uncertain footstep was heard in the passage, then a bump as if someone had lurched into the wall. The family stood stock-still and waited.
“Maybe he’ll hurt himself in the dark,” said Mrs. Beatup, “now policeman woan’t let us have the light at the passage bend.”
“No, he’s all right. There he is scrabbling at the door.”
There was the sound of fingers groping and scratching. Then the door opened and the farmer of Worge came in, his hat a little on one side, a lock of hair falling over his red forehead, and the whole of his waistcoat undone. He stood, supporting himself against the doorpost, and glared at the family.