The last remark was addressed to the elder child, who caught at his legs as he strode past. Bob was not actively unkind to the little wretches for whose being he was responsible; he simply occupied the natural position of unsophisticated man to children of that age, one of indifference, or impatience. The infants were a nuisance; no one desired their coming, and the older they grew the more expensive they were.
It was a cold evening of October; Pennyloaf had allowed the fire to get very low (she knew not exactly where the next supply of coals was to come from), and her husband growled as he made a vain endeavour to warm his hands.
“Why haven’t you got tea ready?” he asked.
“I couldn’t be sure as you was comin’, Bob; how could I? But I’ll soon get the kettle boilin’.”
“Couldn’t be sure as I was coming? Why, I’ve been back every night this week—except two or three.”
