They were in the hall again now, and the gramophone was singing in its spooky voice. “You called me Baby Doll a year ago.” Tom slowly turned the handle of the front door, sidling out on to the step.
“Thank you for the clothes, Mus’ Archie. I’ll try and talk some sense into Harry before I go.”
“Good night, Beatup, and good luck to you. I expect I’ll see some more of you in the near future. All the chaps round here seem to be drafted into the eighteenth. Bill Putland will be in our little crowd, and Jerry Sumption—there’ll be quite a Dallington set at Waterheel.”
“I hope I’ll be with you, Mus’ Archie.”
“I hope you will, Beatup. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The door shut, and he was out in the drive, where the larches swung against the moon.
Archie Lamb went back into the drawing-room, and put a new record on the gramophone.
“Queer chap, Beatup,” he said to his mother. “I don’t know how he’ll shape. He looks strong and steady, but I should say about as smart as a mangold-wurzel.”