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“Well, Jos lad!”

It was the voice of the little man, Charlie, who had spoken with Myatt on the football field.

“Come in quick, Charlie. It’s cowd [cold],” said the voice of Jos Myatt, gloomily.

“Ay! Cowd it is, lad! It’s above three mile as I’ve walked, and thou knows it, Jos. Give us a quartern o’ gin.”

The door grated again and a bolt was drawn.

The two men passed together behind the bar, and so within my vision. Charlie had a grey muffler round his neck; his hands were far in his pockets and seemed to be at strain, as though trying to prevent his upper and his lower garments from flying apart. Jos Myatt was extremely dishevelled. In the little man’s demeanour towards the big one there was now none of the self-conscious pride in the mere fact of acquaintance that I had noticed on the field. Clearly the two were intimate friends, perhaps relatives. While Jos was dispensing the gin, Charlie said, in a low tone:

“Well, what luck, Jos?”

This was the first reference, by either of them, to the crisis.

Jos deliberately finished pouring out the gin. Then he said:

“There’s two on ’em, Charlie.”

“Two on ’em? What mean’st tha’, lad?”

“I mean as it’s twins.”

Charlie and I were equally startled.

“Thou never says!” he murmured, incredulous.

“Ay! One o’ both sorts,” said Jos.

“Thou never says!” Charlie repeated, holding his glass of gin steady in his hand.

“One come at summat after one o’clock, and th’ other between five and six. I had for fetch old woman Eardley to help. It were more than a handful for Susannah and th’ doctor.”

Astonishing, that I should have slept through these events!

“How is her?” asked Charlie, quietly, as it were casually. I think this appearance of casualness was caused by the stoic suppression of the symptoms of anxiety.

“Her’s bad,” said Jos, briefly.

“And I am na’ surprised,” said Charlie. And he lifted the glass. “Well–here’s luck.” He sipped the gin, savouring it on his tongue like a connoisseur, and gradually making up his mind about its quality. Then he took another sip.

“Hast seen her?”

“I seed her for a minute, but our Susannah wouldna’ let me stop i’ th’ room. Her was raving like.”

“Missis?”

“Ay!”

“And th’ babbies–hast seen them?“

“Ay! But I can make nowt out of ’em. Mrs Eardley says as her’s never seen no finer.”

“Doctor gone?”

“That he has na’! He’s bin up there all the blessed night, in his shirt-sleeves. I give him a stiff glass o’ whisky at five o’clock and that’s all as he’s had.”

Charlie finished his gin. The pair stood silent.

“Well,” said Charlie, striking his leg. “Swelp me bob! It fair beats me! Twins! Who’d ha’thought it? Jos, lad, thou mayst be thankful as it isna’ triplets. Never did I think, as I was footing it up here this morning, as it was twins I was coming to!”

“Hast got that half quid in thy pocket?”

“What half quid?” said Charlie, defensively.

“Now then. Chuck us it over!” said Jos, suddenly harsh and overbearing.

“I laid thee half quid as it ‘ud be a wench,” said Charlie, doggedly.

“Thou’rt a liar, Charlie!” said Jos. “Thou laidst half a quid as it wasna’ a boy.”

“Nay, nay!” Charlie shook his head.

“And a boy it is!” Jos persisted.

“It being a lad and a wench,” said Charlie, with a judicial air, “and me ‘aving laid as it ‘ud be a wench, I wins.” In his accents and his gestures I could discern the mean soul, who on principle never paid until he was absolutely forced to pay. I could see also that Jos Myatt knew his man.

“Thou laidst me as it wasna’ a lad,” Jos almost shouted. “And a lad it is, I tell thee.”

“And a wench!” said Charlie; then shook his head.

The wrangle proceeded monotonously, each party repeating over and over again the phrases of his own argument. I was very glad that Jos did not know me to be a witness of the making of the bet; otherwise I should assuredly have been summoned to give judgment.