So, with nothing for Ivy but a nod, Tom went in to breakfast. Time was short, but the breakfast was still in a rudimentary state. Mrs. Beatup fought with the kitchen fire among whorls of smoke, while Nell, coughing pathetically, laid the table. Harry in a fit of brotherly love was cleaning Tom’s best boots ready for his journey to Lewes—no one ever went to Lewes in any but Sunday clothes.
“Oh, is that you, Tom? I hope as you aun’t in a hurry. This fire’s bewitched. Nell, give your brother a cut off the loaf. You’d better git started, Tom, or you’ll lose your train.”
So Tom’s last breakfast at Worge was eaten in confusion and mess, the family dropping in one by one for cuts off the loaf or helpings of cold bacon spotted with large blisters of grease. Last of all the breakfast arrived, in the shape of the tea-pot, and a special boiled egg for Tom. He was not able to do more than gulp down the egg and scald himself with the tea. Then it was time to go. He had already tied up a few little things in a handkerchief—a razor, a piece of soap, an old frosted Christmas card which for some obscure reason he treasured—so there was nothing to do but to say good-bye and beat it for Hailsham, a good seven miles.
Mus’ Beatup put down his tea-cup and looked solemn.
“Well, good-bye, my lad. I reckon you’ve got to go. Everyone’s off to fight now, seemingly, so I suppose you must do wot others do. Not that I think so much of this war as some folks seem to—it’s bin going on nigh two years now, and I can’t see as we’re any of us a penny the better off. Howsumdever....”
“He’s going to stop it,” said Nell, her face pink.
“Ho, is he? Well, I’ve no objection. Maybe I’ll write you a letter, Tom, when Maudie calves.”
“I’d be much obliged if you would, faather, and tell me how the wheat does this year, and them new oats by the Street.”
“Good-bye, Tom,” said Harry. “I shall miss you unaccountable.”
“And I’ll miss you, too,” said Zacky, “but there’ll be more room in the bed.”