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FreeA Sick Collier
D. H. Lawrence
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She was too good for him, everyone said. Yet still she did not regret marrying him. He had come courting her when he was only nineteen, and she twenty.
He was what they call a tight little fellow in build; short, dark, with a warm colour, and that upright set of the head and chest, that flaunting way in movement recalling a mating bird, which denotes a body taut and compact with life. Being a good worker, he had earned decent money in the mine, and having a good home had saved a little.
She was a cook at "Uplands", a tall, fair girl, very quiet. Having seen her walk down the street, Horsepool had followed her from a distance. He was taken with her; he did not drink, and he was not lazy. So, although he seemed a bit simple, without much intelligence, but having a sort of physical brightness, she considered, and accepted him.
When they were married, they went to live in Scargill Street, in a highly respectable six-roomed house which they had furnished between them. The street was built up the side of a long, steep hill. It was narrow and rather tunnel-like. Nevertheless, the back looked out over the adjoining pasture, across a wide valley of fields and woods, in the bottom of which the mine lay snugly.
He made himself the boss in his own house. She was unacquainted with a collier's way of life. They were married on a Saturday. On Sunday night he said: "Set the table for my breakfast, and put my pit things in front of the fire. I'll be getting up at half past five. You needn't move yourself until whenever you like."
He showed her how to put a newspaper on the table for a cloth. When she demurred: "I want none o' your white cloths i' th' mornin'. I like ter be able to slobber if I feel like it," he said.
He placed his moleskin trousers, a clean singlet, or sleeveless vest of thick flannel, a pair of stockings, and his pit boots before the fire, arranging them all so they would be warm and ready for the morning.
"Now tha sees. That wants doin' ivery night."
Punctually at half past five he left her, without any form of farewell, going downstairs in his shirt.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 1 / 7
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She was too good for him, everyone said. Yet still she did not regret marrying him. He had come courting her when he was only nineteen, and she twenty.
He was what they call a tight little fellow in build; short, dark, with a warm colour, and that upright set of the head and chest, that flaunting way in movement recalling a mating bird, which denotes a body taut and compact with life. Being a good worker, he had earned decent money in the mine, and having a good home had saved a little.
She was a cook at "Uplands", a tall, fair girl, very quiet. Having seen her walk down the street, Horsepool had followed her from a distance. He was taken with her; he did not drink, and he was not lazy. So, although he seemed a bit simple, without much intelligence, but having a sort of physical brightness, she considered, and accepted him.
When they were married, they went to live in Scargill Street, in a highly respectable six-roomed house which they had furnished between them. The street was built up the side of a long, steep hill. It was narrow and rather tunnel-like. Nevertheless, the back looked out over the adjoining pasture, across a wide valley of fields and woods, in the bottom of which the mine lay snugly.
He made himself the boss in his own house. She was unacquainted with a collier's way of life. They were married on a Saturday. On Sunday night he said: "Set the table for my breakfast, and put my pit things in front of the fire. I'll be getting up at half past five. You needn't move yourself until whenever you like."
He showed her how to put a newspaper on the table for a cloth. When she demurred: "I want none o' your white cloths i' th' mornin'. I like ter be able to slobber if I feel like it," he said.
He placed his moleskin trousers, a clean singlet, or sleeveless vest of thick flannel, a pair of stockings, and his pit boots before the fire, arranging them all so they would be warm and ready for the morning.
"Now tha sees. That wants doin' ivery night."
Punctually at half past five he left her, without any form of farewell, going downstairs in his shirt.When he arrived home at four o'clock in the afternoon, his dinner was ready to be served. She was startled when he came in, a short, sturdy figure, with a face indescribably black and streaked. She stood before the fire in her white blouse and white apron, a fair girl, the picture of beautiful cleanliness. He "clommaxed" in, in his heavy boots.
"Well, how 'as ter gone on?" he asked.
"I was ready for you to come home," she replied tenderly. In his black face, the whites of his brown eyes flashed at her.
"An' I wor ready for comin'," he said. He plonked his tin bottle and snap-bag on the dresser, took off his coat and scarf and waistcoat, dragged his armchair nearer the fire and sat down.
"Let's ha'e a bit o' dinner, then—I'm about clammed," he said.
"Aren't you goin' to wash yourself first?"
"What am I to wesh mysen for?"
"Well, you can't eat your dinner——" "Oh, strike a daisy, Missis! Dunna I eat my snap i' th' pit wi'out weshin'?—forced to."
She served the dinner and sat opposite him. His small bullet head was quite black, save for the whites of his eyes and his scarlet lips. It gave her a queer sensation to see him open his red mouth and bare his white teeth as he ate. His arms and hands were mottled black; his bare, strong neck grew a little fairer as it settled towards his shoulders, reassuring her. There was the faint, indescribable odour of the pit in the room, an odour of damp, exhausted air.
"Why is your vest so black on the shoulders?" she asked.
"My singlet? That's from the water dripping on us from the roof. This is a dry one I put on before I came up. They have great clothes-horses, and as we change our things, we put them on there to dry."
When he washed himself, kneeling on the hearth-rug stripped to the waist, she felt afraid of him again. He was so muscular, he seemed so intent on what he was doing, so intensely himself, like a vigorous animal. And as he stood wiping himself, with his naked breast towards her, she felt rather sick, seeing his thick arms bulge their muscles.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 2 / 7
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
When he arrived home at four o'clock in the afternoon, his dinner was ready to be served. She was startled when he came in, a short, sturdy figure, with a face indescribably black and streaked. She stood before the fire in her white blouse and white apron, a fair girl, the picture of beautiful cleanliness. He "clommaxed" in, in his heavy boots.
"Well, how 'as ter gone on?" he asked.
"I was ready for you to come home," she replied tenderly. In his black face, the whites of his brown eyes flashed at her.
"An' I wor ready for comin'," he said. He plonked his tin bottle and snap-bag on the dresser, took off his coat and scarf and waistcoat, dragged his armchair nearer the fire and sat down.
"Let's ha'e a bit o' dinner, then—I'm about clammed," he said.
"Aren't you goin' to wash yourself first?"
"What am I to wesh mysen for?"
"Well, you can't eat your dinner——" "Oh, strike a daisy, Missis! Dunna I eat my snap i' th' pit wi'out weshin'?—forced to."
She served the dinner and sat opposite him. His small bullet head was quite black, save for the whites of his eyes and his scarlet lips. It gave her a queer sensation to see him open his red mouth and bare his white teeth as he ate. His arms and hands were mottled black; his bare, strong neck grew a little fairer as it settled towards his shoulders, reassuring her. There was the faint, indescribable odour of the pit in the room, an odour of damp, exhausted air.
"Why is your vest so black on the shoulders?" she asked.
"My singlet? That's from the water dripping on us from the roof. This is a dry one I put on before I came up. They have great clothes-horses, and as we change our things, we put them on there to dry."
When he washed himself, kneeling on the hearth-rug stripped to the waist, she felt afraid of him again. He was so muscular, he seemed so intent on what he was doing, so intensely himself, like a vigorous animal. And as he stood wiping himself, with his naked breast towards her, she felt rather sick, seeing his thick arms bulge their muscles.They were nevertheless very happy. He was at a great pitch of pride because of her. The men in the pit might chaff him, they might try to entice him away, but nothing could diminish his self-assured pride because of her, nothing could unsettle his almost infantile satisfaction. In the evening he sat in his armchair chattering to her, or listening as she read the newspaper to him. When the weather was fine, he would go into the street, squat on his heels as colliers do, with his back against the wall of his parlour, and call out to the passers-by, in greeting, one after another. If no one were passing, he was content just to squat and smoke, having such a fund of sufficiency and satisfaction in his heart. He was well married.
They had not been wed a year when all the men of Brent and Wellwood went on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled through. The furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were incurred. She worried and contrived; he left it to her. But he was a good husband; he gave her all he had.
The men were out for fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year when Willy had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit head the doctor talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the young collier raved like a madman, what with pain and fear of the hospital.
"Tha's gonna go home, Willy, tha's gonna go home," the deputy said.
A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or hesitating, she prepared it. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him shout with pain at being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink down. They carried him in.
"Yo' should 'a' had a bed i' th' parlour, Missis," said the deputy, "then we shouldn't 'a' 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 the pain's bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an' bear it a bit."
"You must carry on in that form, lad; your missis'll never be able to stand it," said the deputy.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 3 / 7
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
They were nevertheless very happy. He was at a great pitch of pride because of her. The men in the pit might chaff him, they might try to entice him away, but nothing could diminish his self-assured pride because of her, nothing could unsettle his almost infantile satisfaction. In the evening he sat in his armchair chattering to her, or listening as she read the newspaper to him. When the weather was fine, he would go into the street, squat on his heels as colliers do, with his back against the wall of his parlour, and call out to the passers-by, in greeting, one after another. If no one were passing, he was content just to squat and smoke, having such a fund of sufficiency and satisfaction in his heart. He was well married.
They had not been wed a year when all the men of Brent and Wellwood went on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled through. The furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were incurred. She worried and contrived; he left it to her. But he was a good husband; he gave her all he had.
The men were out for fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year when Willy had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit head the doctor talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the young collier raved like a madman, what with pain and fear of the hospital.
"Tha's gonna go home, Willy, tha's gonna go home," the deputy said.
A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or hesitating, she prepared it. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him shout with pain at being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink down. They carried him in.
"Yo' should 'a' had a bed i' th' parlour, Missis," said the deputy, "then we shouldn't 'a' 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 the pain's bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an' bear it a bit."
"You must carry on in that form, lad; your missis'll never be able to stand it," said the deputy."I canna help it; it's the fever, it's the fever," 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 on 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 looking vigorous, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear on 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 in 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 believe the pain is coming 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." "Can't 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 and 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 small 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'!"
"I arena!"
"Come 'ere with that blood-alley."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 4 / 7
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"I canna help it; it's the fever, it's the fever," 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 on 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 looking vigorous, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear on 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 in 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 believe the pain is coming 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." "Can't 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 and 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 small 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'!"
"I arena!"
"Come 'ere with that blood-alley.""Swop us four for't." "Shonna, gie's hold on't." He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had weakened his mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control.
Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay morning. The Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They were returning with their half-sovereigns.
"Sorry!" bawled a voice. "Sorry!"
The word is a form of address, probably a corruption of "Sirrah". Willy started almost out of his chair.
"Sorry!" bawled a great voice again. "Art goin' wi' me to see Notts play Villa?"
Many of the marble players started up.
"What time is it? There's no trains; we'll have to walk."
The street was alive with men.
"Who's goin' to Nottingham to see th' match?" shouted the same big voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his eyes, was calling.
"Come on—aye, come on!" came many voices. The street was full of the shouting of men. They split up into excited cliques and groups.
"Play up, Notts!" shouted the big man.
"Plee up, Notts!" shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful authorities were aware.
"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" shouted the sick man at his window.
Lucy came running upstairs.
"I'm goin' ter see Notts play Villa on th' Meadows ground," he declared.
"You—you can't go. There are no trains. You can't walk nine miles."
"I'm goin' ter see th' match," he declared, rising.
"You know you can't. Sit down now an' be quiet."
She put her hand on him. He shook it off.
"Leave me alone, leave me alone. It's thee as ma'es th' peen come, it's thee. I'm goin' ter Nottingham to see th' football match."
"Sit down—folks'll hear you, and what will they think?"
"Come off'n me. Com' off. It's her, it's her as does it. Com' off."
He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and he was strong as a lion.
"Oh, Willy!" she cried.
"It's 'er, it's 'er. Kill her!" he shouted, "kill her."
"Willy, folks'll hear you."
"Th' peen's comin' on again, I tell yer. I'll kill her for it."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 5 / 7
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Swop us four for't." "Shonna, gie's hold on't." He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had weakened his mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control.
Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay morning. The Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They were returning with their half-sovereigns.
"Sorry!" bawled a voice. "Sorry!"
The word is a form of address, probably a corruption of "Sirrah". Willy started almost out of his chair.
"Sorry!" bawled a great voice again. "Art goin' wi' me to see Notts play Villa?"
Many of the marble players started up.
"What time is it? There's no trains; we'll have to walk."
The street was alive with men.
"Who's goin' to Nottingham to see th' match?" shouted the same big voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his eyes, was calling.
"Come on—aye, come on!" came many voices. The street was full of the shouting of men. They split up into excited cliques and groups.
"Play up, Notts!" shouted the big man.
"Plee up, Notts!" shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful authorities were aware.
"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" shouted the sick man at his window.
Lucy came running upstairs.
"I'm goin' ter see Notts play Villa on th' Meadows ground," he declared.
"You—_you_ can't go. There are no trains. You can't walk nine miles."
"I'm goin' ter see th' match," he declared, rising.
"You know you can't. Sit down now an' be quiet."
She put her hand on him. He shook it off.
"Leave me alone, leave me alone. It's thee as ma'es th' peen come, it's thee. I'm goin' ter Nottingham to see th' football match."
"Sit down—folks'll hear you, and what will they think?"
"Come off'n me. Com' off. It's her, it's her as does it. Com' off."
He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and he was strong as a lion.
"Oh, Willy!" she cried.
"It's 'er, it's 'er. Kill her!" he shouted, "kill her."
"Willy, folks'll hear you."
"Th' peen's comin' on again, I tell yer. I'll kill her for it."He was completely out of his mind. She struggled with him to prevent him going to the stairs. When she escaped from him, he was shouting and raving; she beckoned to her neighbour, a girl of twenty-four, who was cleaning the window across the road.
Ethel Mellor was the daughter of a well-to-do check-weighman. She ran across in fear to Mrs Horsepool. Hearing the man raving, people were running out into the street and listening. Ethel hurried upstairs. Everything was clean and pretty in the young home.
Willy was staggering around the room, following the slowly retreating Lucy, shouting: "Kill her! Kill her!"
"Mr Horsepool!" cried Ethel, leaning against the bed, white as the sheets, and trembling. "What on earth are you saying?"
"I tell you it's her fault that the fever comes on—I tell you it is! Kill her—kill her!"
"Kill Mrs Horsepool!" cried the trembling girl. "Why, you're ever so fond of her, you know you are."
"The fever—I've got such a lot of fever—I want to kill her."
He was subsiding. When he sat down, his wife collapsed in a chair, weeping silently. The tears ran down Ethel's face. He sat staring out of the window; then the old, hurt look came over his face.
"What have I been saying?" he asked, looking pitifully at his wife.
"Why!" said Ethel, "you've been carrying on something awful, saying, 'Kill her, kill her!'"
"Have I, Lucy?" he faltered.
"You didn't know what you were saying," said his young wife gently but coldly.
His face puckered up. He bit his lip, then burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, with his face to the window.
There was no sound in the room but that of three people crying bitterly, their breath caught in sobs. Suddenly Lucy wiped away her tears and went over to him.
"You didn't know what you were saying, Willy, I know you didn't. I knew you didn't, all the time. It doesn't matter, Willy. Only don't do it again."
After a little while, when they were calmer, she went downstairs with Ethel.
"See if anyone is looking out into the street," she said.
Ethel went into the parlour and peeked through the curtains.
"Aye!" she said. "You may back your life—Lena and Mrs Severn'll be out gossiping, and that clattering Mrs Allsop."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 6 / 7
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He was completely out of his mind. She struggled with him to prevent him going to the stairs. When she escaped from him, he was shouting and raving; she beckoned to her neighbour, a girl of twenty-four, who was cleaning the window across the road.
Ethel Mellor was the daughter of a well-to-do check-weighman. She ran across in fear to Mrs Horsepool. Hearing the man raving, people were running out into the street and listening. Ethel hurried upstairs. Everything was clean and pretty in the young home.
Willy was staggering around the room, following the slowly retreating Lucy, shouting: "Kill her! Kill her!"
"Mr Horsepool!" cried Ethel, leaning against the bed, white as the sheets, and trembling. "What on earth are you saying?"
"I tell you it's her fault that the fever comes on—I tell you it is! Kill her—kill her!"
"Kill Mrs Horsepool!" cried the trembling girl. "Why, you're ever so fond of her, you know you are."
"The fever—I've got such a lot of fever—I want to kill her."
He was subsiding. When he sat down, his wife collapsed in a chair, weeping silently. The tears ran down Ethel's face. He sat staring out of the window; then the old, hurt look came over his face.
"What have I been saying?" he asked, looking pitifully at his wife.
"Why!" said Ethel, "you've been carrying on something awful, saying, 'Kill her, kill her!'"
"Have I, Lucy?" he faltered.
"You didn't know what you were saying," said his young wife gently but coldly.
His face puckered up. He bit his lip, then burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, with his face to the window.
There was no sound in the room but that of three people crying bitterly, their breath caught in sobs. Suddenly Lucy wiped away her tears and went over to him.
"You didn't know what you were saying, Willy, I know you didn't. I knew you didn't, all the time. It doesn't matter, Willy. Only don't do it again."
After a little while, when they were calmer, she went downstairs with Ethel.
"See if anyone is looking out into the street," she said.
Ethel went into the parlour and peeked through the curtains.
"Aye!" she said. "You may back your life—Lena and Mrs Severn'll be out gossiping, and that clattering Mrs Allsop.""Oh, I hope they haven't heard anything! If it gets around that he's out of his mind, they'll stop his compensation, I know they will."
"They'd never stop his compensation for that," protested Ethel.
"Well, they have been stopping some——" "It won't get around. I won't tell anyone."
"Oh, but if it does, whatever shall we do?..."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-75716df849c144e8b43dbe62feff04af
# book_title: A Sick Collier
# chapter_id: 1-a-sick-collier
# chapter_title: A Sick Collier
# book_page: 7 / 7
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Oh, I hope they haven't heard anything! If it gets around that he's out of his mind, they'll stop his compensation, I know they will."
"They'd never stop his compensation for _that_," protested Ethel.
"Well, they _have_ been stopping some——" "It won't get around. I won't tell anyone."
"Oh, but if it does, whatever shall we do?..."
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