"Roddy, I wish you'd go and see where your father is."
Roddy looked up from his sketch-book. He had filled it with pictures of
cavalry on plunging chargers, trains of artillery rushing into battle,
sailing ships in heavy seas.
Roddy's mind was possessed by images of danger and adventure.
He flourished off the last wave of battle-smoke, and shut the sketch-book
with a snap.
Mamma knew perfectly well where Papa was. Roddy knew. Catty and Maggie
the cook knew. Everybody in the village knew. Regularly, about six
o'clock in the evening, he shuffled out of the house and along the High
Row to the Buck Hotel, and towards dinner-time Roddy had to go and bring
him back. Everybody knew what he went for.
He would have to hold Papa tight by the arm and lead him over the
cobblestones. They would pass the long bench at the corner under the
Kendals' wall; and Mr. Oldshaw, the banker, and Mr. Horn, the grocer, and
Mr. Acroyd, the shoemaker, would be sitting there talking to Mr. Belk,
who was justice of the peace. And they would see Papa. The young men
squatting on the flagstones outside the "Farmer's Arms" and the "King's
Head" would see him. And Papa would stiffen and draw himself up, trying
to look dignified and sober.
When he was very bad Mamma would cry, quietly, all through dinner-time.
But she would never admit that he went to the Buck Hotel. He had just
gone off nobody knew where and Roddy had got to find him.
August, September and October passed.