"Ar! That's jest where it is!" said old Billet.
"An' take it or leave it!" added Joe Maydew.
"Ar!" said the rest.
Peter sat in a dark corner, behind a string of onions, muttering to himself.
"Is it your pleasure, fellow Unbelievers, that we go into committee on the future programme of the club?" asked Mr. Coffin.
"'Ear! 'ear!" cried the curious non-members, eagerly.
But Armstrong rose and stuck his fists again into the bottoms of his pockets, and glared at the proposer.
"W'y, if it comes to that, no, it ain't!" he said, fiercely. "And take it out o' that!" And with that he stamped out of the "Threshing Machine," followed by Joe Maydew.
The non-members were terribly disappointed; Mr. Coffin's influence was powerless to set the proceedings going; the affair was a disastrous frost; and presently the party broke up. At the hour for closing Peter still sat in the dark corner behind the string of onions, rocking his chair on its two hind legs and glowering at his boots; and he had to be nudged three times before he started up and mechanically trudged out, with his eyes fixed on the floor.
Next day, at the time for going to work, Peter sat in his living-room with his chin upon his chest, and refused to budge. He had not attempted to repair the thatch of his roof; and the rain had soaked his bed, and spoilt his one or two books, and the coloured prints on his wall and other things; but he merely gazed hopelessly round like one under an irremovable curse, and gave it up. He had left the cover off his little flour-tub, and the rain had soaked the flour, and a hen was scratching in it; but there he sat and glowered.