He sat, as the men always did in Mrs Morel's kitchen, effacing himself rather.
`How's missis?' she asked of him.
He had told her some time back:
`We're expectin' us third just now, you see.'
`Well,' he answered, rubbing his head, `she keeps pretty middlin', I think.'
`Let's see--when?' asked Mrs Morel.
`Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now.'
`Ah! And she's kept fairly?'
`Yes, tidy.'
`That's a blessing, for she's none too strong.'
`No. An' I've done another silly trick.'
`What's that?'
Mrs Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly.
`I'm come be-out th' market-bag.'
`You can have mine.'
`Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself.'
`I shan't. I take a string bag always.'
She saw the determined little collier buying in the week's groceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. `Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are,' she said to her husband.
Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman.
`I see you've kested me,' he said, smiling rather vapidly.
`Yes,' replied Barker.
The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose was pointed and red.
`I'm afraid you're cold, Mr Wesson,' said Mrs Morel.
`It's a bit nippy,' he replied.
`Then come to the fire.'
`Nay, I s'll do where I am.'
Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family.
`Go thy ways i' th' arm-chair,' cried Morel cheerily.