Tommy Wideawake Part 9

"I say, you're not a bad sort," said Tommy.

Madge laughed.

"Hullo, Tommy," cried the poet.

"My dear Madge, where _have_ you been?" cried Miss Gerald.

The poet smiled.

"It is April, Miss Gerald," he said. "We must not be too severe on the young people. As you know, this is proverbially an irresponsible, changeable, witch of a month."

"We must hurry home, Madge," said Miss Gerald, holding out a graceful, though strong, hand to the poet.

He clasped it a moment.

"That was an interesting chat we had, Miss Gerald. I shall remember it.

Come, Tommy, it is time that we also returned."

They walked slowly home together, Tommy chattering away freely of the day's adventures. The poet seemed more than usually abstracted. In a pause of Tommy's babbling, the name on the fly leaf of a book came back to him. He had seen it, in the sunshine, by the stream.

"Mollie Gerald," he murmured.

"I beg your pardon," said Tommy, politely.

"Nothing," snapped the poet.

"Which I says to Berrill, 'Berrill,' I says, 'Jest look 'ee 'ere now, if the pote ain't a-walkin' along o' Miss Gerald from the 'all, as close an' hinterested as never was, an' 'im, fer all the world, a 'missusogynist,' I says, meanin' a wimming-'ater.

"An' Berrill 'e said 'imself as 'e'd 'ardly a believed it if 'e 'adn't seed it wi' 'is own heyes, so to speak.

"'It do be a masterpiece,' 'e said, 'a reg'lar masterpiece it be.'"

They were sitting in Mrs. Chundle's kitchen, and Mrs. Berrill seemed excited.

Mrs. Chundle wiped a moist forehead with her ap.r.o.n, and shook her head.

"What with Mister Thomas, an' catapults--I could believe hanythink, Mrs.

Berrill," she said.

"The pote's changin' 'is ways, Mrs. Chundle."

"'E is that, Mrs. Berrill, which as me haunt Jane Chundle, as is related to me blood-relations, the Cholmondeleys, 'eard Mrs. Cholmondeley o'

Barnardley say to the rector's wife, an' arterwards told me private, 'Yer never do know oo's oo nowadays'--be they poits or hanybody else."

"It bees just what the parson wer a sayin' a fortnight Sunday, wars an'

rumours o' wars, an' b.l.o.o.d.y moons, an' disasters an' catapults, in the last days, 'e says--they be hall signs o' the times, Mrs. Chundle."

Mrs. Chundle sipped her tea, and looked round her immaculate kitchen.

Then she lowered her voice,

"I'm 'opin', Mrs. Berrill, I'm 'opin' hearnest as 'ow when Mister Thomas goes back, the master will come to 'imself, like the prodigale."

Mrs. Berrill looked doubtful.

"When once the worm hentereth Eden, Mrs. Chundle," she began, enigmatically--and they both shook their heads.

"The worm bein' Mister Thomas," remarked Mrs. Chundle. "An' 'im that vilent an' himpetuous I never does know what 'e's agoin' hafter next."

"You should be firm, Mrs. Chundle."

"Which I ham, Mrs. Berrill, by nature hand intention, an' if I 'ad me own way I'd spank 'im 'earty twice a week, Mrs. Berrill, Wednesdays an'

Sat.u.r.days."

"Why Wednesdays an' Sat.u.r.days, Mrs. Chundle?"

"Wednesdays ter teach 'im the hemptiness o' riches, Mrs. Berrill, which 'e gets 'is pocket-money on Wednesdays--an' Sat.u.r.days to give 'im a chastened spirit fer the Sabbath--an' ter keep 'im from a sittin' sleepy in church, Mrs. Berrill."

Here the door opened suddenly and Tommy came in, very muddy, with a peaceful face, and a large rent in his coat.

"I say, Mrs. Chundle, do sew this up for me--hullo, Mrs. Berrill, that was a ripping tea you gave us last week--you are an absolute gem, Mrs.

Chundle," and Tommy sat himself down on the kitchen bench, while Mrs.

Chundle ruefully examined the coat.

In Mrs. Berrill's eye was a challenge, as who should say, "Now, Mrs.

Chundle, arise and a.s.sert your authority, put down a firm foot and say, this shall not be.'"

That lady doubtless saw it, for she pursed her lips and gazed at Tommy with some dignity.

"Mister Thomas," she began--but Tommy interrupted her.

"I say, I didn't know you an' Mrs. Berrill were pals. Mrs. Berrill gave me a huge tea the other day, Mrs. Chundle--awful good cake she makes, don't you, Mrs. Berrill? An', I say, Mrs. Berrill, has old--has Mrs.

Chundle told you all about the Cholmondeleys, an' how they married, an'

came to England--how long ago was it?" Mrs. Chundle blushed modestly.

"With William the Norming," she said gently.

"An' how she was derived from them, you know, an' all that?"

Mrs. Berrill nodded.

"We hall know as 'ow Mrs. Chundle is a--a very superior person," she said.

Mrs. Chundle st.i.tched away in silent graciousness.

"Tommy," cried a distant voice--it was the poet's--"Tommy, come here, I've just hit the bottle three times running."