as a brake, and let her down the hill to Faddock Allman.
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Every step jarred, and he had to stab at the ground with his heels to hold Wicked Winnie from running away with him. He went down the cleared ground of the swarfs.
Then he slipped. The stubble was too polished. Robert sat down hard and slid. Wicked Winnie was trying to pull him forwards, but he lay back, holding the sash-cord, lay back, pressing his shoulders against the hill, his heels furrowing. He didn’t want to be dragged face down through that stubble.
Kivvers were all about him. Robert heaved at the sash cord and rolled his body to steer. And Wicked Winnie swung close but didn’t hit. The last kivver went by, and Robert, Wicked Winnie and the stones all landed in the quickthorn hedge.
‘Yon’s a grand lot,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Up and down the field Robert went. He had never had such a day. When he got stones for Faddock Allman he had to find them one by one, all sorts, in lanes and hedge cops and at the ends of fields, every kind and size. Now, though, it seemed the hill was giving them to him.
‘Is that enough, Mister Allman?’ said Robert. He had made a pile that would last till winter.
‘Is it heck as like!’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Raunge the beggars out!’ So Robert did.
And the scythes went round the field, cutting a square spiral to the centre. The rows of kivvers grew under the heat of the day.
‘Baggin!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.
The field stopped. Men and women went to the shaded edge, where food and beer were kept. The scythes were sharpened and laid against trees.
‘Eh up, Starie Chelevek! Fancy a wet?’ Uncle Charlie had left the others and come down to be with Faddock Allman. He’d brought baggin of bread and onion and cheese and a stone bottle of beer, a full gallon. He crouched on one heel and swigged from the bottle. ‘And what have you been at, Dick-Richard,’ he said, ‘mauling guts out of jackacres?’
‘It’s all cut stone,’ said Robert, ‘same as a quarry bank!’
‘It is that,’ said Faddock Allman. He took the bottle from Uncle Charlie and drank. ‘See at it!’ He hit a finished, squared perfect block and it broke into rough road Hints. ‘Grand,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘What’s it doing there?’ said Robert.
‘Nowt,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Grand!’ He split another.
‘Are all jackacres cut stone?’ said Robert.
‘Happen,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Number One! Fire!’ He smashed a stone. ‘Number Two! Fire!’ He smashed another.
Uncle Charlie uncovered his rifle and polished the stock. He smiled.
‘Number Three!’ shouted Faddock Allman.
‘Cease firing and get your baggin,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘Cease firing! Scatter homeward!’ shouted Faddock Allman, and bit into an onion, and chewed. He laughed at Robert.
‘I was twitting you, youth,’ he said. ‘You see, I recollect as how, at one time of day, there was a house stood yonder. And I recollect as how, when they fetched it down, I did enjoy chucking cob-ends through windows.’
‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie.
‘It was good,’ said Faddock Allman, ‘chucking cob-ends.’ He pulled the peak of his helmet over his eyes. ‘Number Three! Fire! Number Four! Fire!’ He laughed at the rock.
Robert emptied Wicked Winnie, and went to take Father his baggin.
Father was a smith. He was tinsmith, locksmith and blacksmith: and every Monday morning he wound the chapel clock. But now his time went on making horseshoes for the war.
Robert swept Wicked Winnie clean and oiled her again. He oiled the hubs specially, with Uncle Charlie’s fine oil.
He set her in the middle of the road, at the top of the camber, and eased himself in, holding the sashcord. Wicked Winnie wanted to go, but Robert put his boots down. He took his balance, waited for stillness, and gently lifted his boots, not pushing. Nothing happened. He tried not to twitch. Then Wicked Winnie began to move. Robert
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Every step jarred, and he had to stab at the ground with his heels to hold Wicked Winnie from running away with him. He went down the cleared ground of the swarfs.
Then he slipped. The stubble was too polished. Robert sat down hard and slid. Wicked Winnie was trying to pull him forwards, but he lay back, holding the sash-cord, lay back, pressing his shoulders against the hill, his heels furrowing. He didn’t want to be dragged face down through that stubble.
Kivvers were all about him. Robert heaved at the sash cord and rolled his body to steer. And Wicked Winnie swung close but didn’t hit. The last kivver went by, and Robert, Wicked Winnie and the stones all landed in the quickthorn hedge.
‘Yon’s a grand lot,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Up and down the field Robert went. He had never had such a day. When he got stones for Faddock Allman he had to find them one by one, all sorts, in lanes and hedge cops and at the ends of fields, every kind and size. Now, though, it seemed the hill was giving them to him.
‘Is that enough, Mister Allman?’ said Robert. He had made a pile that would last till winter.
‘Is it heck as like!’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Raunge the beggars out!’ So Robert did.
And the scythes went round the field, cutting a square spiral to the centre. The rows of kivvers grew under the heat of the day.
‘Baggin!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.
The field stopped. Men and women went to the shaded edge, where food and beer were kept. The scythes were sharpened and laid against trees.
‘Eh up, Starie Chelevek! Fancy a wet?’ Uncle Charlie had left the others and come down to be with Faddock Allman. He’d brought baggin of bread and onion and cheese and a stone bottle of beer, a full gallon. He crouched on one heel and swigged from the bottle. ‘And what have you been at, Dick-Richard,’ he said, ‘mauling guts out of jackacres?’
‘It’s all cut stone,’ said Robert, ‘same as a quarry bank!’
‘It is that,’ said Faddock Allman. He took the bottle from Uncle Charlie and drank. ‘See at it!’ He hit a finished, squared perfect block and it broke into rough road Hints. ‘Grand,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘What’s it doing there?’ said Robert.
‘Nowt,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Grand!’ He split another.
‘Are all jackacres cut stone?’ said Robert.
‘Happen,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Number One! Fire!’ He smashed a stone. ‘Number Two! Fire!’ He smashed another.
Uncle Charlie uncovered his rifle and polished the stock. He smiled.
‘Number Three!’ shouted Faddock Allman.
‘Cease firing and get your baggin,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘Cease firing! Scatter homeward!’ shouted Faddock Allman, and bit into an onion, and chewed. He laughed at Robert.
‘I was twitting you, youth,’ he said. ‘You see, I recollect as how, at one time of day, there was a house stood yonder. And I recollect as how, when they fetched it down, I did enjoy chucking cob-ends through windows.’
‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie.
‘It was good,’ said Faddock Allman, ‘chucking cob-ends.’ He pulled the peak of his helmet over his eyes. ‘Number Three! Fire! Number Four! Fire!’ He laughed at the rock.
Robert emptied Wicked Winnie, and went to take Father his baggin.
Father was a smith. He was tinsmith, locksmith and blacksmith: and every Monday morning he wound the chapel clock. But now his time went on making horseshoes for the war.
Robert swept Wicked Winnie clean and oiled her again. He oiled the hubs specially, with Uncle Charlie’s fine oil.
He set her in the middle of the road, at the top of the camber, and eased himself in, holding the sashcord. Wicked Winnie wanted to go, but Robert put his boots down. He took his balance, waited for stillness, and gently lifted his boots, not pushing. Nothing happened. He tried not to twitch. Then Wicked Winnie began to move. Robert
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