Morel turned round to
him.
"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?"
"Oh, nothing--about famous women."
"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?"
"It's a book."
"Oh, indeed!"
"About birds."
"Hm--hm!"
And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the father and any
other member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in
him.
The only times when he entered again into the life of his own people
was when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening, he
cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then he always
wanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it. They united with
him in the work, in the actual doing of something, when he was his real
self again.
He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a good
humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years, of
friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It was
nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into the scullery,
crying:
"Out of my road--out of my road!"
Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose, and made
the shape he wanted.
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