On the table was a wild, unwieldy parcel, from whose bursting sides the contents were already beginning to ooze forth.
“I’m packing a parcel for Jerry,” said the minister. “I’d just finished when you knocked.”
“It looks as if it was coming undone,” said Tom.
“So it does”—and Mr. Sumption glanced deprecatingly at his handiwork. “If only I had some sealing-wax ... but the shop’s shut.”
“It’ll be open to-morrow,” said Tom, and pictured Thyrza pulling up the blind and dusting the salmon-tins in the window ... long after he had gone to catch the early train from Hailsham.
“Well, to-morrow’s time enough, as I can’t post it before then. It ud be a pity for anything to get lost. There’s three shillings’ worth of things in that parcel.”
“Have you had any more letters from Jerry?”
“Yes, I had one yesterday”—no need to tell Tom there had been no others—“He wants chocolate and cigarettes, and I put in a tin of cocoa besides, and some little squares to make soup of. He’ll be unaccountable pleased.”
“How’s he gitting on?”
“Valiant. He likes being along of the other lads. The only thing that worrits him is your sister.”