“Yo’ should ’a’ had a bed i’ th’ parlour, Missis,” said the deputy, “then we shouldna’ ha’ had to hawkse ’im upstairs, an’ it ’ud’ a’ saved your legs.”
But it was too late now. They got him upstairs.
“They let me lie, Lucy,” he was crying, “they let me lie two mortal hours on th’ sleck afore they took me outer th’ stall. Th’ peen, Lucy, th’ peen; oh, Lucy, th’ peen, th’ peen!”
“I know th’ pain’s bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an’ bear it a bit.”
“Tha manna carry on in that form, lad, thy missis’ll niver be able ter stan’ it,” said the deputy.
“I canna’ elp it, it’s th’ peen, it’s th’ peen,” he cried again. He had never been ill in his life. When he had smashed a finger he could look at the wound. But this pain came from inside, and terrified him. At last he was soothed and exhausted.
It was some time before she could undress him and wash him. He would let no other woman do for him, having that savage modesty usual in such men.
For six weeks he was in bed, suffering much pain. The doctors were not quite sure what was the matter with him, and scarcely knew what to do. He could eat, he did not lose flesh, nor strength, yet the pain continued, and he could hardly walk at all.
In the sixth week the men came out in the national strike. He would get up quite early in the morning and sit by the window. On Wednesday, the second week of the strike, he sat gazing out on the street as usual, a bullet-headed young man, still vigorous-looking, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear in his face.
“Lucy,” he called, “Lucy!”
She, pale and worn, ran upstairs at his bidding.
“Gi’e me a han’kercher,” he said.
“Why, you’ve got one,” she replied, coming near.
“Tha nedna touch me,” he cried. Feeling his pocket, he produced a white handkerchief.
“I non want a white un, gi’e me a red un,” he said.
“An’ if anybody comes to see you,” she answered, giving him a red handkerchief.
“Besides,” she continued, “you needn’t ha’ brought me upstairs for that.”
“I b’lieve th’ peen’s commin’ on again,” he said, with a little horror in his voice.
“It isn’t, you know it isn’t,” she replied. “The doctor says you imagine it’s there when it isn’t.”
“Canna I feel what’s inside me?” he shouted.
“There’s a traction-engine coming downhill,” she said. “That’ll scatter them. —I’ll just go an’ finish your pudding.”
She left him. The traction-engine went by, shaking the houses. Then the street was quiet, save for the men. A gang of youths from fifteen to twenty-five years old were playing marbles in the middle of the road. Other little groups of men were playing on the pavement. The street was gloomy. Willy could hear the endless calling and shouting of men’s voices.
“Tha’rt skinchin’ !”
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