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There followed an anxious peace for three days, and then a rough man
in a blue jersey, in the intervals of trying to choke himself with
bread and cheese and pickled onions, broke out abruptly into
information.
"Jim's lagged again, Missus," he said.
"What!" said the landlady. "Our Jim?"
"Your Jim," said the man, and after an absolutely necessary pause for
swallowing, added: "Stealin' a 'atchet."
He did not speak for some moments, and then he replied to Mr. Polly's
enquiries: "Yes, a 'atchet. Down Lammam way--night before last."
"What'd 'e steal a 'atchet for?" asked the plump woman.
"'E said 'e wanted a 'atchet."
"I wonder what he wanted a hatchet for?" said Mr. Polly, thoughtfully.
"I dessay 'e 'ad a use for it," said the gentleman in the blue jersey,
and he took a mouthful that amounted to conversational suicide. There
was a prolonged pause in the little bar, and Mr. Polly did some rapid
thinking.
He went to the window and whistled. "I shall stick it," he whispered
at last. "'Atchets or no 'atchets."
He turned to the man with the blue jersey when he thought him clear
for speech again. "How much did you say they'd given him?" he asked.
"Three munce," said the man in the blue jersey, and refilled
anxiously, as if alarmed at the momentary clearness of his voice.
