They walked across the grass to the gates near the station, where men and children, and men with babies perched on their shoulders, were making way back to the homes from which they had been temporarily expelled in order to give wives and mothers opportunity for concentrating minds on the preparation for dinner.
“No use trying to blister you for ’alf a pint, Erb?”
“Waste of time,” said Erb.
“What d’you do with all your money?”
“I don’t find no difficulty,” he replied, “in getting rid of it. Any spare cash goes in books. I’ve got a reg’lar little library at ’ome. John Stuart Mill and Professor Wallace and Robert Owen, and goodness knows what all.”
“The only reely sensible thing you’ve done, Erb,” remarked one, “is not getting married.”
“That’s one of ’em,” he admitted.
“You don’t know what it is to be always buying boots for the kiddies.”
“Don’t want.”
“You single men get it all your own way. Same time, it’s a selfish life in my opinion. You don’t live for the sake of anybody.”