Bared up to the armpits and down to the breast, the blacksmith was washing himself in a bowl of water placed on a chair. His mother sat on a low stool, with a pair of iron tongs in her hands, feeding the fire from a bundle of gorse that lay at one side of the hearth. She was a big, brawny, elderly woman with large bony hands, and a face that had hard and heavy features, which were dotted here and there with discolored warts. Her dress was slatternly and somewhat dirty. A soiled linen cap covered a mop of streaky hair, mouse-colored and unkempt.
“He's backset and foreset,” she said in a low tone. “Ey, eye; he's made a sad mull on't.”
Mrs. Garth purred to herself as she lifted another pile of gorse on to the crackling fire.
Joe answered with a grating laugh, and then with a burr he applied a towel to his face.
“Nay, nay, mother. He has a gay bit of gumption in him, has Ray. It'll be no kitten play to catch hold on him, and they know that they do.”
The emphasis was accompanied by a lowered tone, and a sidelong motion of the head towards a doorway that led out of the kitchen.
“Kitten play or cat play, it's dicky with him; nought so sure, Joey,” said Mrs. Garth; and her cold eyes sparkled as she purred again with satisfaction.
“That's what you're always saying,” said Joe testily; “but it never comes to anything and never will.”
“Weel, weel, there's nought so queer as folk,” mumbled Mrs. Garth.
Joe seemed to understand his mother's implication.