As I went away in the gathering dark, with my hands full of potatoes, I met
the landlord of the Blue Boar, his shirt sleeves rolled up as usual above
his brown, muscular arms.
"Bad news that about Mrs. Lummis," he said, looking towards the cottage on
the other side of the road.
"What is that?" said I. "Her son?" There had been no news of him for two
months.
"Yes, poor Jack. She's got news that he was killed near la Bassee in June.
Nice feller--and her only son."
Then, more cheerfully, he added, "Jim's coming home to-morrow. Going to get
his officer's rig out, you know, and have a rest--the first since he went
out a year ago."
"You'll be glad to see him," said I.
"Not half," said he with a vast smile.
ON RUMOUR
I was speaking the other day to a man of cautious mind on a subject of
current rumour. "Well," he said, "if I had been asked whether I believed
such evidence four months ago I should have said 'Certainly.' But after the
great Russian myth I believe nothing that I can't prove.
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