Mamma had given Papa's smoking-room to Dan. She kept on going in and out
of it to see if he was there.
"When you've posted the letters you might go and see what Dan's doing."
Everybody in the village knew about Dan. The postmistress looked up from
stamping the letters to say, "Your brother was here a minute ago." Mr.
Horn, the grocer, called to you from the bench at the fork of the roads,
"Ef yo're lookin' for yore broother, he's joost gawn oop daale."
If Mr. Horn had looked the other way when he saw you coming you would
have known that Dan was in the Buck Hotel.
The white sickle of the road; a light at the top of the sickle; the
Aldersons' house.
A man was crossing from the moor-track to the road. He carried a stack of
heather on his shoulder: Jem's brother, Ned. He stopped and stared. He
was thicker and slower than Jem; darker haired; fuller and redder in the
face; he looked at you with the same little, kind, screwed-up eyes.
"Ef yo're lookin' for yore broother, 'e's in t' oose long o' us. Wull yo
coom in? T' missus med gev yo a coop o' tea."
She went in. There was dusk in the kitchen, with a grey light in the
square of the window and a red light in the oblong of the grate. A small
boy with a toasting-fork knelt by the hearth. You disentangled a smell of
stewed tea and browning toast from thick, deep smells of peat smoke and
the sweat drying on Ned's shirt. When Farmer Alderson got up you saw the
round table, the coarse blue-grey teacups and the brown glazed teapot on
a brown glazed cloth.
Dan sat by the table. Dumpling, Ned's three-year-old daughter, sat on
Dan's knee; you could see her scarlet cheeks and yellow hair above the
grey frieze of his coat-sleeve. His mournful black-and-white face stooped
to her in earnest, respectful attention. He was taking a piece of
butterscotch out of the silver paper. Dumpling opened her wet, red mouth.
Rachel, Ned's wife, watched them, her lips twisted in a fond, wise smile,
as she pressed the big loaf to her breast and cut thick slices of
bread-and-jam. She had made a place for you beside her.
"She sengs ersen to slape wid a li'l' song she maakes," Rachel said.
"Tha'll seng that li'l' song for Mester Dan, wuntha?"
Dumpling hid her face and sang. You had to stoop to hear the cheeping
that came out of Dan's shoulder.
"Aw, dinny, dinny dy-Doomplin',
Dy-Doomplin', dy-Doomplin',
Dinny, dinny dy-Doomplin',
Dy-Doomplin' daay."
"Ef tha'll seng for Mester Dan," Farmer Alderson said, "tha'llt seng for
tha faather, wuntha, Doomplin'?"
"Naw."
"For Graffer then?"
"Naw."
Dumpling put her head on one side, butting under Dan's chin like a cat.
Dan's arm drew her closer. He was happy there, in the Aldersons' kitchen,
holding Dumpling on his knee. There was something in his happiness that
hurt you as Roddy's unhappiness had hurt. All your life you had never
really known Dan, the queer, scowling boy who didn't notice you, didn't
play with you as Roddy played or care for you as Mark had cared. And
suddenly you knew him; better even than Roddy, better than Mark.