“If we all thought of things as we ought, perhaps things ’ud be different. On’y most of us just go on and let things happen an’ don’t think. Look at them kids.”
His voice became alert, and Flo saw three boys of not more than four jumping out of the back of the dilapidated float which she recognized. On the cobbles they collapsed and rolled about with laughter, but after a second or so they were up again and scrambling into the float for another jump.
“Hi!” called Jack without anger. “What d’you think you’re doing? If the horse sets off yo’d break your necks.” The youngsters abruptly went quiet and stared with wide sober eyes.
“Why aren’t you at school?” he asked.
“Dunna go,” said one with full cheeks and a black smear like an immense Victorian moustache under his pink snub nose.
“You’re young Tim Backhouse, aren’t you?” The urchin nodded. “Ay, I thought you were. And you’re Sal Morgan’s lad; and you’re Peter Binks.” Neither of them gave the slightest sign. “Wait till I see your mothers.”
“You won’t, will you?” said Flo on their behalf.
Jack winked and set his left foot in the float and pulled himself up. The whole of the front of the float was filled with dirty-looking plant pots of many different sizes. “Can’t invite you for a ride very well. They’re for the greenhouse . . . when it’s ready,” he said, smiling. “Oh well . . .” He sat back comfortably against the float side dangling the reins negligently, and made a clicking in his throat. The piebald, after appearing to consider, started slowly. “I’ll be seein’ you.”
“Yes,” said Flo, with the three children regarding her solemnly. She wondered why she had come with him to the float. And all at once she remembered and started after him. The float was trundling towards the church, the horse stepping consideringly on the rough old setts.
“A minute,” called Flo, hoping that there was nobody listening or watching. The horse stopped. “I meant to tell you.” She was panting a little. “I thought I’d better, in . . . in case it was you.”
He looked down, half-puzzled, half-amused.
She began again: “I hope you won’t mind.” He dropped to the ground and it was easier for her. “But if it was you last night, Bert says next time he’ll shoot an’ not wait.”
“Eh,” exclaimed Jack. “Shoot! What for?”
He sounded so sincere that Flo lost doubt at once. “It wasn’t you, then. But it did look like you.”
Jack grinned and asked how she meant.
“I . . . I don’t know, but it did, somehow,” said Flo, a little confused by his direct stare. “It was across a field and dark; well, it was in moonlight.”
“What time?”
“It must have been half-past nine,” she answered consideringly.
“I was walking from the library to Border Bridge. I bet it was young Buck Willox. He’s a beggar. Went across, ha, ha, Bert would be mad! I’ll chip him next time.”
“I don’t know,” said Flo quickly. “I don’t know whether I should have told. But I didn’t want . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he broke in, patting her hand in a quick, curious way. “He’ll not know it was you. Thanks for telling me. D’you often go round with him?”
“No, it’s the first time.”
“He’s a good chap; better than Clem. But he can’t stick anyone after his ducks. I bet he would shoot. I’ll keep away. Thanks for warnin’ me. I’ll pull his leg.” He laughed. “Oh well . . . ta, ta!”
Again he gave his curious stiff flip to his forehead. Flo walked away without looking back. She was rather sorry that she had said anything. Why had he asked how often she went round with Bert?
About ten on Thursday morning Flo was dusting the stairs when a knock sounded on the open back door. Mrs. Nadin was getting dinner in the kitchen. She shouted at once, “Come in. Canna you see door’s oppen?”
Nailed boots entered, but only a few steps, hesitantly. Flo, peeping between the bannister rails, saw in the passage a lanky youth about fourteen with a thick auburn mop and a black patch on the seat of grey whipcord breeches.
“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Nadin, unseen.
“I’m Mr. Willox’s son. I’ve come . . .”
“Eh!” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin, appearing so suddenly that the lad took a quick pace back. “You’re the young b———r that comes stealing our eggs.”
“Me? No,” stuttered the lad, getting a bit farther back all the time with sideways, twisting movements. “Me? Why . . .?”