“Yes—I’m going ... join up in a fortnight. Come in, Harry; I want to spik to you.”
“I want my supper.”
“You’ll have your supper, though you doan’t desarve it, you spannelling beggar. I’ll come and sit along of you; we must talk business, you and I.”
“About Worge?”
“Yes.”
They were in the kitchen now, dark except for some gleeds of fire. The rest of the family had gone to bed, but the broken supper was still on the table—the hacked, hardening loaf, and the remains of the bacon and cabbage under floating scabs of grease. Tom lit the lamp and Harry sat down, hungry and uncritical. The two boys were curiously alike, short and sturdy, with broad sunburnt faces, grey eyes, big mouths, and small, defiant noses. Harry’s coat was covered with clay all down one side, and the sleeve was torn—Tom was too heavy-hearted for more scolding, just noted drearily a new item of expenditure. The younger brother saw the elder’s cast-down looks:
“I’m unaccountable sorry, Tom,” he said sheepishly.
“Cos of wot? Cos I’m going or cos you aun’t worth your bed and keep?”
“Cos of both.”
“Well, there’s naun to do about one, but a sight to do about t’other. Harry, you’ll have to mind Worge when I’m agone.”