"Travelling in shoes? Why not boots. Had his worn out?"
Wilson looked on him pityingly. "He sold the shoes. Leastwise tried to. Drowned hisself last week. Poor chap. You new to these parts?"
"Yes. I came from Manchester."
If only there was something to say that would arrest their attention—or if only the inn was full! David was aware that his methods were best adapted for addressing large audiences. Here he felt stifled and stupid.
"Ay—hope!" sneered Waite irrelevantly. He was gazing into the sulky fire with brooding eyes.
"You down on your luck too?" asked David.
"Luck, d'you call it? Pretty sort o' luck I say when you're turned out o' your job at worst time o' year, without a month's notice and your missus with another little 'un coming. That's luck, isn't it? It's luck when t' master sends 'is missus up t' farm to spy on you. It's luck when you don't go down and lick her boots like other fond fools, and she turns on you and tells a pack o' lies and get you chucked out. That's all luck, ain't it?"
"Is that what happened to you?" David asked quietly.
"Happened? Oh, no. These things don't happen. This is a fine land this is, and we're all free labourers. There's a lot of brotherly love about this, an' psalm singing and the rest on't. And they come round at Christmas w' puddings and bits o' beef till it fair sickens you. What we wants is justice. We don't ask no bloody charity."
"Who was it turned you out?"