"Afternoon, Mr. Coast."
"How's Ethel? Any better? Bad business for her getting ill just now. What does the doctor think of her?"
"He says she ought to get away to a warmer spot, ought not to winter at Anderby, he says. As if I was a millionaire to send 'er off in a first class carriage."
Waite spat with emphasis on the path.
"Oh dear, that's bad isn't it? What are you going to do about it?"
Coast knew that any other father in the village would have gone for help to Mary Robson, and that she would have found, among the various institutions to whose skirts she clung for the benefit of her protégés, some holiday home for a delicate child.
But there was no such simple solution for Waite's problem.
"There's nowt to do for the likes o' me but wait and let her get better if she can."
"Let me see, where are you working now?"
Waite gave him one sidelong glance and then broke forth. "I'm not working. I'm not striking neither. I've been tenting cows for Tommy Dent when he went harvesting. I tell you there are some low down things done in Anderby you'd never hear tell on."