"Dramatists will dramatise us," said Lance. "The natives out yonder will anathematise us," said Lina. "But the best people will sing our praises," said Mr. Jupp. "I wonder if anybody will understand you," said Mrs. Jupp, very solemnly and very quietly. "Such funny ideas, men have . . . "That doesn't matter," said her husband. "The best things in life rarely are properly understood, are they, Lance?" "N-not always, Mr. Jupp." When Mr. Harvey walked back, happy and content with twenty pounds in his pocket that he had got from Mr. Jupp for the books, he noticed how bright and jolly Lance was. So did Mrs. Harvey when they got back. Lance's eyes were bright. He talked gaily and recited for his mother's benefit the details of Mr. Jupp's latest scheme, with such a wealth of pleasant fancy and illusion that she said: "You sound happy, Lance." "Do I, mother?" "Yes, dear." "Well . . . I feel happy. Mr. Jupp's a jolly man, isn't he? And imagine the loveliness of his scheme.' "He's got that niece with him, Margaret-very nice girl, isn't she, Lance?" "Wha-ye-yes, father: very nice," said Lance, a trifle indifferently the first few words, but keener the last two, and then he took up a book and pretended to be very interested. CHAPTER XII AMOS THINKS AND TALKS AMOS TUGWELL had mouse-coloured hair which came rather well down on a low but fairly wide forehead. His eyes were a faint blue-like his mother's-and his moustache, a dingy red, covered an ugly mouth. He always wore a turn-down collar and a narrow black tie. He never saw mountain peaks or wished to scale them: he had no longing to adventure in unknown lands: he would have been no good as a leader of lost causes, and it is probable that he never made anybody laugh heartily. But he had "got on." He knew how many beans made five and his watch was always right with the post office clock. If there was a difference it was quite possible the post office clock was wrong. He worked, saved and was satisfied. With progress came other desires, but they were commonplace and obvious. He had gone ahead as a gimlet goes through wood, through one piece after another, after rests and coolings, to be dulled and blunted at last, but satisfied that it has quietly bored its way through. Since his partnership with Ewins he had felt more important, of course, and now he and his mother lived in a seven-roomed house in Seymour Street and had a girl in to clean the steps, the back yard and to do sundry mopping and scouring. Mrs. Tugwell had always been a worker: the women don't fear work in Ganton, as a rule, or turn their noses up at it. In fact, the well-to-do women do far too much of the cleaning and scrubbing-partly their own fault and partly their husband's. Mrs. Tugwell seemed to concentrate on her son. The house was made comfortable for him: the meals were arranged for him. He was the object of all her thoughts and the real and only tie in her life. She did not boast: she was just satisfied her son had got on, and she wished him to go on or keep on. He was to be prosperous and respected and the rest of it. She had no goal in view: she simply wanted her son to be richer than he was, more esteemed, more anything that seemed worldly. No soul in it, but not much of Self in it, either, save that, of course, he was her Son. Amos had come from the Works. It was about two weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter. "Goin' to see Mester Ewins to-night, then, Amos?" Mrs. Tugwell asked. "Yes, mother, I think I'll pop in." She shook her head. "Mester Ewins is a cute 'un, too. 'ud 'appen, Amos?" "I don't know. It might be very serious. He's saying he's another patent that 'll ruin ours.' "Eh!" Mrs. Tugwell looked very concerned. "D'you think it's true?" "I don't know. Higgins is a queer chap. It's possible." "Well . . I don't know. I think we shall find a way out. But if he's got a machine that's better than ours and lets somebody else get it . . . to spite us" Amos shook his head suggestive of things unpleasant. In business very awkward things happen, sometimes "He was drunk when he said it, so Tom Fraser told me. He said Higgins was boasting in the 'Old Soldier' what he'd do to us when his new machine was out." "Drunk, eh? · 'e was drunk when 'e boasted before, weren't 'e? An' 'is boastin' then was all right." "Yes, that's it. That's what troubles me. I'll tell Mr. Ewins. It's his Manchester day and he hasn't been to the Works since dinner." "I would. 'E'll know what to do. Best thing to square Mester 'Iggins if you can. You don't want any trouble." She stroked her thin flat chest and looked very concerned. Her eyes ran up and down her son, from his feet to his head. Then she looked round the clean and tidy kitchen and walked to the curtain at the window which overlooked the back yard. Her housewifely fingers pulled it this way a little and that and she caught sight of a hole in it. "T't, t't... I must mend this," she said. "'Ow badly these people do wash! That's the worst o' sendin' curtains to them laundries . . . I'd wash 'em myself but it's a bit too much for me now . . T't, t't, but just look here-dear! dear! dear! It was Emily as washed this, of course it was, of course. Careless creature! They think nothin' of what they're doin' She's a good worker, too, an' mangles well, an' I've told 'er about these curtains dozens o' times to be careful..." "Wants a stitch or two," said Amos, who took an interest in the curtains, too. "H'm, well, I think I'll be off." "Aye. I can stitch this all right. I suppose," she said, "there's nothin' in that report about young Mester 'Arvey an' Miss Dorothy?" Amos looked touched seriously. "What-Lance Harvey-him on th' Examiner an' Times?" "Aye." "What-about him and Miss Dorothy?" Amos was certainly curious about this report. Mrs. Tugwell pulled a thread from his coat. "That's wearin' well, Amos." "Aye, it was a good suit, you know: it's worth while getting good stuff. I always say that-but about this report. "Well, it was Green, th' baker, as told me. 'E said 'e'd seen young Mester 'Arvey talkin' to Miss Dorothy an' walkin' with 'er now an' again, an' 'e'd 'eard as they were walkin' out properly." "No fear! I've heard nothing. I don't believe it. Young Harvey . . . two pounds a week at the most Besides, Mr. Ewins . . . h'm . . . . . h'm . . . Young Harvey's a relation . . . he goes there now an' then . . that's it... that's set 'em talkin' |