“Oh ay, two on ’em, Clem an’ Bert. Yo’ dunna know them then?” The porter’s interest grew. He was long and thin-faced with very slow deep brown eyes. His gaze gradually took her all in, and then a smile spread from his eyes downward. “Yo’re non going aliving there, art?”
“How do I get there?” she asked, a bit scared of his advancing familiarity.
“Eh, tha’ll non lug that thing,” he declared, slowly stooping and testing the bass. “Aa suppose they were going ta send the trap. It’ll be Clem; it’s usually him as drives. ’E’s a lazy beggar is Clem . . . but yo’ll ’a ta be careful with ’im. Yo’re non going there ta work, are yo’?”
“If you’ll tell me the way, I’ll go,” she said as coolly as she could.
“Oh, ay, Aa’ll show yo’ that,” he promised, not at all put out. “Yo’ll have ta look out for Clem if yo’re a going a living there,” he went on lounging against the building again as though he were going to keep her there. “Bert, t’other brother, he’s a boy ta shoot.”
“Ta shoot?” said Flo, “You don’t mean he wants shooting?”
“Wants shootin’?” repeated the porter with guffaw. “Naow, course he doesna want shootin’. If one of ’em did it ’ud be Clem.”
“But you . . . you said it was the . . . the other one who was a boy to shoot.”
“Well, he is. He’d shoot at owt. If Aa had a quid for every rabbit as he’s shot—ay, or for every wild duck as ’e’s shot—Aa’d be a bloomin’ millionaire.”
“Oh,” said Flo, realizing at last that it was just another of the funny sayings they used which she would have to get used to. As the porter showed no sign of moving she stooped to lift the bass. “You said you’d tell me the way.”
“Aa’ll show it you; Aa reckon as that’s better,” he said slowly, at the same time unhurriedly levering himself away from the stonework once more, but not making any offer to help with the bass. “He’s a top-notcher at shootin’ clay-pigeons, and all; he’s got some cups for that,” he went on as he mooched in front of her through a narrow ticket-hall and out on to a broad stoned level. At the far side was a strong wooden fence of the kind that only railway companies can afford. It was chest high and he leaned his elbows in a way that told her at once that he had leaned there hundreds of times before. Immediately beyond the fence a green slope began and went right down into the valley where the church was among the trees. Instinctively she looked leftward, and saw the gleam of the lake again. Climbing from the church in easy curves was a grey road.
“Yon’s ’im,” said the porter, by which she gathered that he meant a spider-size trap and horse about a mile away, “He’s non hurryin’; he never does. They say as farming’s hard work, but by helup . . .” He spat, aiming at a thistle rosette plugged into the bank. “They dunna know what hard work is,” he declared gravely.
“Do you have a lot to do?” asked Flo, glad that he seemed to have forgotten his curiosity about her.
“Aa’ve the whole bloomin’ station to look after, any’ow, See at him; it doesna matter two batterdocks whether he’s in time for the train, but what’s ta happen if Aa’m non ’ere?”
Flo privately thought that the train would have managed all right, except, of course, that there would not have been anybody to have taken her ticket. “But what do you do between train times?” she asked, rather liking him.
“What do Aa do?” He whistled through top teeth which were yellow and brown and uneven. “What don’t Aa do? yo’ mean. There’s brushin’ and scrubbin’ and lamps ta clean an’ fill, ticket-office ta see to, fires ta make, telephone t’ answer, luggage to see to; an’ when Aa’ve done all that lot, mi time’s mi own.”
“Oh,” said Flo. If none of the people she was to mix with was worse than the porter she felt that she would be all right. She let her glance go down the hill once more, and was surprised at how far the trap had come. She could see now something of the man in it. He had his elbows on his knees, the reins held loosely in both hands. His cap was long-peaked and low so that she could not see his face, but his hair looked lightish.
“Yo’ want to watch yo’rself wi’ Clem; ’e’s a blighter,” said the porter unexpectedly; and then he went silent again, and all at once she realized that now she was looking on where she was to live for . . . well, she didn’t know for how long.
“You never showed me,” she reminded suddenly.
“It’s over yon,” he said pointing rather vaguely towards the lake which from there appeared to be completely surrounded by trees. “Near th’ reservoyer; that’s where Bert has his ducks.”