(III)

They were fortunate that night.

The part of Yorkshire where they were traveling consists chiefly of an innumerable quantity of little cottages, gathered for the most part round collieries.  One has the impression—­at any rate, from a motor—­that there is nothing but villages.  But that is not a fact.  There are stretches of road, quite solitary at certain hours; and in one of these they noticed presently a little house, not twenty yards from the road, once obviously forming part of a row of colliers’ cottages, of which the rest were demolished.

It was not far off from ruin itself, and was very plainly uninhabited.  Across the front door were nailed deal props, originally, perhaps, for the purpose of keeping it barred, and useful for holding it in its place.  The Major and Gertie kept watch on the road while Frank pushed open the crazy little gate and went round to the back.  A minute later he called to them softly.

He had wrenched open the back door, and within in the darkness they could make out a little kitchen, stripped of everything—­table, furniture, and even the range itself.  The Major kicked something presently in the gloom, swore softly, and announced he had found a kettle.  They decided that all this would do very well.

* * * * *

Tramps do not demand very much, and these were completely contented when they had made a small fire, damped down with a turf to prevent it smoking, had boiled a little water, stewed some tea, and eaten what they had.  Even this was not luxurious.  The Major produced the heel of a cheese and two crushed-looking bananas, and Frank a half-eaten tin of sardines and a small, stale loaf.  The Major announced presently that he would make a savory; and, indeed, with cheese melted on to the bread, and sardines on the top, he did very well.  Gertie moved silently about; and Frank, in the intervals of rather abrupt conversation with the Major, found his eyes following her as she spread out their small possessions, vanished up the stairs and reappeared.  Certainly she was very like Jenny, even in odd little details—­the line of her eyebrows, the angle of her chin and so forth—­perhaps more in these details than in anything else.  He began to wonder a little about her—­to imagine her past, to forecast her future.  It seemed all rather sordid.  She disappeared finally without a word:  he heard her steps overhead, and then silence.

Then he had to attend to the Major a little more.

“It was easy enough to tell you,” said that gentleman.

“How?”

“Oh, well, if nothing else, your clothes.”

“Aren’t they shabby enough?”

The Major eyed him with half-closed lids, by the light of the single candle-end, stuck in its own wax on the mantelshelf.

“They’re shabby enough, but they’re the wrong sort.  There’s the cut, first—­though that doesn’t settle it.  But these are gray flannel trousers, for one thing, and then the coat’s not stout enough.”