“I haven’t bin to school—I couldn’t go when I heard you wur coming. Mother got your telegram this mornun, and she wur sure it wur to say as you wur killed.”
“Was she pleased when she found it wasn’t?”
“Unaccountable. But she’d nigh cried her eyes out first, and told Ivy and Nell as something tarr’ble had happened to you, afore they found as she’d never opened the telegram.”
“I’ll write a letter next time,” said Tom; “but I never knew for sure till yesterday that I’d be gitting leave so soon.”
He did not scold Zacky for having stayed away from school. It was a relief not to have to exercise quasi-paternal authority any more, but just to take the truant’s hand and walk with him to Worge Gate—where Mus’ Beatup was standing with his gun, having seen Tom in the distance from Podder’s Field, where the conies are, while Mrs. Beatup was running down the drive from the house, her apron blowing before her like a sail.
“Here you are, my boy,” said Mus’ Beatup sententiously, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come to see how we’re gitting on now you’ve left us. The oald farm’s standing yit—the oald farm’s standing yit.”
“And looks valiant,” said Tom, grinning, and kissing his mother.
“Not so valiant as it ud look if there wurn’t no war on.”
“Maybe—that cud be said of most of us.”
“Not of you, Tom,” said Mrs. Beatup. “I never saw you look praaperer than to-day.”