Yours faithfully,

JAMES WEEKES.

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNIE,

Please thank Cook for the two books which I am keepin rapt up

and will not stain. I read the Eagles mate and think it is

a pretty story. As you know dear I am no fist at explaining

myself. At the pictures the other night you were on to me

again about gettin on and that. It isn’t that. Its difficul to

explane what I mean. I expeck I will always be able to make

good money enough. If you havent been throw it you cant know

what its like. Its somethin else I want if you know what I

mean. To be honest I did not like the picturs the other night.

I thought they were silly but I like to have you sittin by me

and holding your hand. If I could tell you what I mean you

would know. I have heard from Mr. Weekes about the littery and

am writin off at once. Steve our foreman has got sacked for

pinchin lether been goin on for yeres so must close with love

till Sunday.

ALF.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

As regards your communication you ask what are my

quallifications. I say I have no quallifications sir

nevertheless I am wishful to join the littery. I will be

candid with you sir. I am not what you might call a littery

or eddicated man at all. I am in the saddlery. I was all

throw Gallipoli and Egypt L/corporal in the 2/15th Mounted

Blumshires. It used to come over me like when I was out there

alone in the dessert. Prehaps sir you will understand me when

I say it for I find folks do not understand me about it not

even the girl I walk out with Annie Phelps, who is as nice a

girl a feller could wish. Prehaps sir you have to have been

throw if it you know what I mean. When you are alone at night

in the dessert its all so big and quite you want to get to

know things and all about things if you know what I mean sir

so prehaps you will pass me in the littery.

Your obedient servant

ALFRED CODLING.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR ALF,

You was funny Sunday. I dont know whats up with you. You never

used to be that glum I call it. Is it thinking about this

littery soc turnin your head or what. Millie says you come

into the kitchen like a boiled oul you was. Cheer up ole dear

till Sunday week.

ANNIE.

JAMES WEEKES, ESQ., TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR SIR,

Allow me to thank you for your charming letter. I feel that

I understand your latent desires perfectly. I shall be

returning to Tibbelsford in a week’s time when I hope to make

your acquaintance. I feel sure that you will make a desirable

member of our literary society.

Yours cordially,

JAMES WEEKES.

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS

MY DEAR SAM,

I received the enclosed letter yesterday and I hasten to send

it on to you. Did you ever read anything more delightful? We

must certainly get Alfred Codling into our society. He sounds

the kind of person who would make a splendid foil to old

Baldwin with his tortuous metaphysics--that is, if we can only

get him to talk.

Yours ever,

J. W.

SAMUEL CHILDERS TO JAMES WEEKES

MY DEAR CHAP,

You are surely not serious about the ex-corporal! I showed his

letter to Fanny. She simply screamed with laughter. But of

course you mean it as a joke proposing him for the “littery.”

Hope to see you on Friday.

Ever yours,

S. C.

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNIE,

I was afraid you would begin to think I was barmy dear

I always said so but you musnt take it like that. It is

difficult to tell you about but you know my feelins to you is

as always. Now I have to tell you dear that I have seen Mr.

Weekes he is a very nice old gentlemen indeed he is very kind

he says I can go to his hous anytime and read his books he

has hundreds and hundreds. I have nevver seen so many books

you have to have a ladder to clime up to some of them he is

very kind he says he shall propose me for the littery soc and

I can go when I like he ast me all about mysel and that was

very kind and pleesant he told me all about what books I was

to read and that so I think dear I wont be goin to the picturs

Wendesday but will meet you by the Fire statesion Sunday as

usual.

Your lovin

ALF.

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO JAMES WEEKES

MY DEAR WEEKS,

I’m afraid I cannot understand your attitude in proposing and

getting Childers to second this hobbledehoy called Alfred

Codling. I have spoken to him and I am quite willing to

acknowledge that he may be a very good young man in his place.

But why join a literary society? Surely we want to raise the

intellectual standard of the society, not lower it? He is

absolutely ignorant. He knows nothing at all. Our papers and

discussions will be Greek to him. If you wanted an extra hand

in your stables or a jobbing gardener well and good, but I

must sincerely protest against this abuse of the fundamental

purposes of our society.

Yours sincerely,

EPHRAIM BALDWIN.

FANNY CHILDERS TO ELSPETH PRITCHARD

DEAR OLD THING,

I must tell you about a perfect scream that is happening here.

You know the Tibbelsford literary society that Pa belongs to,

and also Jimmy Weekes? Well, it’s like this. Dear Old Jimmy is

always doing something eccentric. The latest thing is he has

discovered a mechanic in the leather trade with a soul! (I’m

not sure I ought not to spell it the other way). He is also an

ex-soldier and was out in the East. He seems to have become

imbued with what they called “Eastern romanticism.” Anyway,

he wanted to join the Society, and old Weekes rushed Pa into

seconding him, and they got him through. And now a lot of the

others are up in arms about it--especially old Baldwin--you

know, we call him “Permanganate of Potash.” If you saw him

you’d know why, but I can’t tell you. I have been to two of

the meetings specially to observe the mechanic with the

soul. He is really quite a dear. A thick-set, square-chinned

little man with enormous hands with a heavy silver ring on

the third finger of his left, and tattoo marks on his right

wrist. He sits there with his hands spread out on his knees

and stares round at the members as though he thinks they are

a lot of lunatics. The first evening he came the paper was on

“The influence of Erasmus on modern theology,” and the second

evening “The drama of the Restoration.” No wonder the poor

soul looks bewildered. He never says a word. How is Tiny? I

was in town on Thursday and got a duck of a hat. Do come over

soon.

Crowds of love,

FAN.

JAMES WEEKES TO ALFRED CODLING

MY DEAR CODLING,

I quite appreciate your difficulty. I would suggest that you

read the following books in the order named. You will find

them in my library:

Jevon’s “Primer of Logic,”

Welton’s “Manual of Logic,”

Brackenbury’s “Primer of Psychology,” and

Professor James’ “Text book of Psychology.”

Do not be discouraged!

Sincerely yours,

JAMES WEEKES.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR ALF,

I dont think you treat me quite fare You says you are sweet

on me and that and then you go on in this funny way It isnt

my falt that you got the wind up in Egypt I dont know what

you mean by all this I wish the ole littery soc was dead and

finish. Cook say you probibly want a blue pill you was so glum

Sunday. Dont you see all these gents and girls and edicated

coves are pullin youre leg if you dont know what they talkin

about and that Your just makin a fule of yourself and then

what about me you dont think of me its makin me a fule too.

Milly says _she_ wouldent have no truck with a book lowse so

there it is.

ANNIE.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

I am much oblidged to you for puttin me on them books It beats

me how they work up these things. I’m afeard I’m not scollard

enough to keep the pace with these sayins and that. Its the

same with the littery I lissen to the talk and sometimes I

think Ive got it and then no. Sometimes I feels angry with the

things said I know the speakers wrong but I cant say I feel

they wrong but I dont know what to say to say it. Theres some

things to big to say isnt that sir. Im much oblidged to you

sir for what you done Beleive me I enjoy the littery altho I

most always dont know the talk I know who are the rite ones

and who are the rong ones If you have been throw what I have

been throw you would know the same sir Beleive me your

obedient servant

ALFRED CODLING.

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE, SECRETARY TO

THE TIBBELSFORD LITERARY SOCIETY

DEAR JOPE,

For my paper on the 19th prox. I propose to discuss “The

influence of Hegelism on modern psychology.”

Yours ever,

EPHRAIM BALDWIN.

EDWIN JOPE TO EPHRAIM BALDWIN

DEAR MR. BALDWIN,

I have issued the notices of your forthcoming paper. The

subject, I am sure, will make a great appeal to our members,

and I feel convinced that we are in for an illuminating and

informative evening. With regard to our little conversation

on Wednesday last, I am entirely in agreement with you

with regard to the quite inexplicable action of Weekes in

introducing the “leather mechanic” into the society. It

appears to me a quite superfluous effrontery to put upon our

members. We do not want to lose Weekes but I feel that he

ought to be asked to give some explanation of his conduct. As

you remark, it lowers the whole standard of the society. We

might as well admit agricultural labourers, burglars, grooms

and barmaids, and the derelicts of the town. I shall sound the

opinion privately of other members.

With kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

EDWIN JOPE.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

All right then you stick to your old littery. I am sendin

you back your weddin ring you go in and out of that place

nevver thinkin of me Aunt siad how it would be you goin off

and cetterer and gettin ideas into your head what do you care

I doant think you care at all I expeck you meet a lot of

these swell heads there men _and women_ and you get talkin

and thinkin you someone All these years you away I wated for

you faithfull I never had a thowt for other fellers and then

you go on like this and treat me in this way Aunt says she

wouldn’t put up and Milly says a book lowse is worse than no

good and so I say goodby and thats how it is now forever You

have broken my hart

ANNE.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

I cried all nite I didndt mean quite all I says you know how

I mene dear Alf if you was only reesonible I doant mind you

goin the littery if you eggsplain yourself For Gawds sake meet

me tonight by the fire stachon and eggsplain everything.

Your broke hearted

ANNE.

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS

MY DEAR SAM,

I hope Harrogate is having the desired effect upon you. I was

about to say that you have missed few events of any value

or interest during your absence, but I feel I must qualify

that statement. You have missed a golden moment. The great

Baldwin evening has come and gone and I deplore the fact that

you were not there. My sense of gratification, however, is

not due to Ephraim himself but to my unpopular protégé and

white elephant--Alfred Codling. I tell you it was glorious!

Ephraim spoke for an hour and a half, the usual thing, a

dull _réchauffée_ of Schopenhauer and Hegel, droning forth

platitudes and half-baked sophistries. When it was finished

the chairman asked if anyone else wished to speak. To my

amazement my ex-lance-corporal rose heavily to his feet. His

face was brick red and his eyes glowed with anger. He pointed

his big fingers at Ephraim and exclaimed: “Yes, talk, talk,

talk--that’s all it is. There’s nothing in it at all!” and

he hobbled out of the room (you know he was wounded in the

right foot). The position, as you may imagine, was a little

trying. I did not feel in the mood to stay and make apologies.

I hurried after Codling. I caught him up at the end of the

lane. I said, “Codling, why did you do that?” He could not

speak for a long time, then he said: “I’m sorry, sir. It came

over me like, all of a sudden.” We walked on. At the corner

by Harvey’s mill we met a girl. Her face was wet--there was a

fine rain pouring at the time. They looked at each other these

two, then she suddenly threw out her arms and buried her face

on his chest. I realized that this was no place for me and

I hurried on. The following morning I received the enclosed

letter. Please return it to me.

Yours ever,

JAMES.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES

DEAR SIR,

Please to irrase my name from the littery soc. I feel I have

treated you bad about it but there it is. I apologize to you

for treatin you bad like this that is all I regret You have

always been kind and pleesant to me lendin me the books and

that. I shall always be grateful to you for what you have

done. It all came over me sudden like last night while that

chap was spoutin out about what you call _physology_. I had

never heard tell on the word till you put me on to it and now

they all talk about it. I looked it up in the diction and it

says somethin about the science of mind and that chap went

on spoutin about it. I had quarrel with my girl we had nevver

quarrel before and I was very down abowt it. She is the best

girl a feller could wish and I have always said so. Somehow

last night while he was spoutin on it came over me sudden I

thowt of the nights I had spent alone in the dessert when it

was all quite and missterous and big. I had been throw it

all sir. I had seen my pals what was alive one minnit blown

to peices the next. I had tramped hundreds of miles and gone

without food and watter. I had seen hell itsel sir And when

you are always with death like that sir you are always so much

alive You are alive and then the next minnit you may be dead

and it makes you want to feel in touch like with everythin

You cant hate noone when you like that You think of the other

feller over there whose thinkin like you are prehaps and he

all alone to lookin up the blinkin stars and it comes over

you that its only love that holds us all together love and

nothin else at all My hart was breakin thinkin of Annie what

I had treated so bad and what I had been throw and he went on

spoutin and spoutin What does he know about _physology_ You

have to had been very near death to find the big things thats

what I found out and I couldnt tell these littery blokes that

thats why I lost my temper and so please to irrase me from the

soc They cant teach me nothen that matters I’ve seen it all

and I cant teach them nothen because they havent been throw

it What I have larnt is sir that theres somethin big in our

lives apart from getting on and comfits and good times and so

sir I am much oblidged for all you done for me and except my

appology for the way I treat you

Your obedient servant,

ALFRED CODLING.

JAMES WEEKES TO EDWIN JOPE

DEAR JOPE,

In reply to your letter, I cannot see my way to apologize or

even dissociate myself with the views expressed by Mr. Alfred

Codling at our last meeting, consequently I must ask you to

accept my resignation.

Yours very truly,

JAMES WEEKES.

SAMUEL CHILDERS TO EDWIN JOPE

DEAR JOPE,

Taking into consideration all the circumstances of the case,

I must ask you to accept my resignation from the Tibbelsford

Literary Society.

Yours faithfully,

S. CHILDERS.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

MY DEAR ALF,

Of course its all right. I am all right now dear Alf I will

try and be a good wife to you I amnt clever like you with all

your big thowts and that but I will and be a good wife to you

Aunt Em is goin to give us that horses-hair and mother says

therell be tweanty-five pounds comin to me when Uncle Steve

pegs out and he has the dropsie all right already What do you

say to Aperil if we can git that cottidge of Mrs. Plummers

mothers See you Sunday

love from

x x x x x x x x x x ANNIE.

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE

DEAR MR. JOPE,

As no apology has been forthcoming to me _from any quarter_

for the outrageous insult I was subjected to on the occasion

of my last paper, I must ask you to accept my resignation.

Yours faithfully,

EPHRAIM BALDWIN, O.B.E.

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNE,

You will be please to hear they made me foreman this will mean

an increas and so on I think April; will be alright Mr. Weekes

sent me check for fifty pounds to start farnishin but I took

it back I said no I could not accep it havin done nothin to

earn it and treatin him so bad over that littery soc but he

said yes and he put it in such a way that I accep after all

so we shall be alright for farnishin at the present He was

very kind and he says we was to go to him at any time and I

was to go on readin the books he says I shall find good things

in them but not the littery soc he says he has left it hisself

I feel I treated him very bad but I could not stand that

feller spoutin and him nevver havin been throw it like what I

have That dog of Charly’s killed one of Mrs. Reeves chickens

Monday so must now close till Sunday with love from

Your soon husband (dont it sound funny?)

ALF.

EDWIN JOPE TO WALTER BUNNING

DEAR SIR,

In reply to your letter I beg to say that the Tibbelsford

Literary Society is dissolved.

Yours faithfully,

E. JOPE.

“FACE”

It will not, of course, surprise you to know that it was at the

Cravenford National School that he was first known as “Face.” The

people of Essex are well-known for their candour and lucidity of

expression. He was an exceptionally--well, plain boy. There was

nothing abnormal, or actually mal-formed about him, it was only that

his features had that perambulatory character which is the antithesis

of classic. It was what the Americans call a “homely” face. The

proportions were all just wrong, the ears slightly protruding, the

jaw too lantern, the eyes actually too wide apart. Moreover, his

figure was clumsy in the extreme. He seemed all hands, and feet, and

knees, and chin. It was impossible for him to pass any object without

kicking it. Neither was his personality enhanced by his manner,

which was taciturn and sullen, _gauche_ in the extreme. The games

and amusements of other boys held no attractions for him. He made no

friends, exchanged no confidences, distinguished himself at nothing.

Yet those of the impatient world who found time to devote a second

glance to this uncouth exterior were bound to be impressed by the

appeal of those deep brown expectant eyes.

They were not essentially intelligent eyes, but they had a kind of

breadth of sympathy, a profound watchfulness, like the eyes of some

caged animal to whom the full functions of its being had not so far

been revealed.

It was the universality of this nick-name, “Face,” which preserved

it, for the boys of Cravenford National School knew that Caleb

Fryatt resented it, and individually they feared him. That very

clumsiness and imperviousness of his was apt to be overwhelming

when adapted to militant purposes. Not that he was easy to rouse,

but it was difficult to know when he was roused--he gave no outward

manifestation of it--but when he was, it was difficult to get him to

stop. He was a grim and merciless fighter, who could take punishment

with a kind of morbid relish. It only inspired him to a more terrible

onslaught. The boys preferred to attack him in company, and then

usually vocally, by peeping over the churchyard wall and calling out:

“Face! Face! Oh, my! There’s a face!”

The tragic setting of his home life explained much. He had had a

brother and two elder sisters, all of whom had died in infancy. He

lived with his father and mother in a meagre dilapidated cottage a

mile beyond the church. His father worked at a stud farm, at such

moments as the mood for work was upon him. He was a man of morose

and vicious temper, quickened by spasmodic outbreaks of alcoholic

indulgence. Of poor physique, he was nevertheless a dangerous

engine of destruction in these moods, particularly in respect to the

frailer sex. Caleb had been brought up in a code which recognized

unquestioningly the right of might, which accepted tears and blows as

a natural concomitant to its reckoning. He had stood powerless and

affrighted at the vision of his little mother beaten unreasonably

almost to insensibility, and he had never heard her complain. His own

body was scarred by the thousand attentions of sticks and belts. He,

too, had not complained. In some dumb way he suffered more from the

blows his mother received than he did from those he received himself.

But he was growing up now--ugly, clumsy old “Face.” When at the age

of fourteen he passed through the first standard and out of the

school, he was already as tall as his father, and somewhat thicker

in girth, more agile, tougher in fibre. The significance of this

development did not occur to him at the time. He was sent to work at

Sam Hurds’, the blacksmith, a dour, intelligent, religious giant,

who instructed him in the intricacies of his craft with relentless

thoroughness, but without much sympathy. The boy liked the work,

although he showed no great aptitude at it. He had a way of plodding

on, appearing to understand, serving long hours, and then in a period

of abstraction forgetting all that he had been told. He loved the

blazing forge, the clang of metal upon metal, the sheen upon the

carter’s horses that came in to be shod, the sunlight making patterns

on the road outside....

He was two years with Sam Hurds. At seventeen his muscles were like

a man’s. His overgrown, hulking body like a fully developed farm

labourer’s. His appearance had not improved. Even the smith adopted

the village nick-name and called him “Face.” At first it was “Young

Face,” then “Face,” then as their sombre familiarity developed,

and the smith realized the boy’s sound qualities and the something

far too old for his years, it became “Old Face.” He knew that his

assistant had no powers of adaptability, little invention, not a very

real grasp of the essentials, but at the same time he knew he could

trust him. He would do precisely as he was told. He would stick to

it. He could be relied upon like a sheep dog. Nothing could shift him

from his post of duty.

The smith was right, but he had not allowed for those outward thrusts

of fate which upset the soberest plans.

One night Caleb arrived home and found his mother crying. He had

never seen her cry before. He regarded her spell-bound.

“What is it, mother?”

“Nothing, lad, nothing. Come, your tea’s keeping warm upon the hob.

There’s a pasty----”

“Nay, you wouldn’t cry for nowt, mother. Lift up your head.”

She lifted up her head and dashed the tears away, but as she moved

toward the kitchen he noticed that she was trying to conceal a limp.

He caught her up.

“He has been striking you again.”

“It’s nothing, lad.”

“Show me.”

He pulled her down to him and she wept again. Lifting the hem of her

skirt, she revealed her leg above the ankle, bound up in linen.

“He kicked me, dear, but it is nothing. It will pass.”

Caleb ate his tea in silence. His table manners were never of the

finest, and on this occasion he masticated his food, and swilled

his tea, like an animal preoccupied with some disturbance of its

normal life. Afterward he sat apart and thought, his mother busy with

household matters. Later she popped across the road to a neighbouring

cottage to borrow some ointment.

While she was out his father returned. It was getting dark, and a

fine rain was beginning to fall. His father came stumbling up the

cottage garden singing. Caleb blocked his passage in the little

entrance hall, and said deliberately:

“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.”

His father, emerging from the shock of surprise, scowled at him.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.”

For a moment Stephen Fryatt was speechless, then he lurched forward

and pushed his son away.

“What the devil’s it to do with you, whippersnapper?”

Caleb thrust his father back against the wall and repeated.

“You didn’t ought to have kicked her.”

Then Stephen saw red. He struck at his son with his clenched hand,

and the blow split the boy’s ear. Caleb took his father by the throat

and shook him. The latter tried to bring his knee into play. At this

foul method of attack, Caleb, too, became angry. Those long powerful

fingers gripped tighter. He closed up, and flung his father’s body

against the lintel of the door. He did not realize his own newly

developed strength. When his mother returned a little later she found

her man lying in the passage with the back of his head in a pool of

blood, her son hovering ghost-like in the background. She gave a cry:

“What’s this ye’ve done, Caleb?”

A hollow voice came out of the darkness:

“He didn’t ought to have kicked ye, mother.”

She screamed and, kneeling upon the floor, she supported the battered

head upon her knee. It appeared an unrecognizable thing, the hair so

much blacker in the ivory-hued face, the eyes staring stupidly.