Tom?" she said, looking at him
languishingly, and then passed on.

Alice had become pale almost to the lips, and there was a look of
steady resolution in her eyes. "You must make your choice, Tom," she
said.

Tom looked at her for a second, then cast his eyes towards the spot
where Polly Powell stood. He felt madly jealous of Jim Dixon at that
moment. What right had he to be with such a girl as Polly? Besides,
why should he give up all the fun of life? Why should he become
strait-laced and silly?

Alice Lister held out her hand. "Good-bye, Tom," she said, "I see that
your choice is made." And then she walked away.

Tom stood gazing after her for a few seconds, undecided what to do.
Something, he could not tell what, urged him to run after her; to
promise her what she wanted him to promise; to renounce the life which,
although it might not be very bad, was still not good for him. He knew
what she meant, knew too that she was in the right. No, he could not,
would not give her up; he loved her too much. Then he felt a hand upon
his arm.

"Ay, so you have got rid of her, have you? You must come back wi' me
to tea." Polly's hand was caressing, and her eyes burnt brightly;
evidently she had been watching him, and had left Jim Dixon for him.
He turned and walked by Polly's side.

That night as Tom walked back to Dixon Street his feet were unsteady
and his voice was husky and uncertain.

"What's matter with thee?" said his mother as he entered the house.

"Nowt's matter wi' me."

"Ay, but there is. Thou'st bin' drinkin' agean."

"Weel, and what if I have? It's cost me nowt."

"Ay, I know: thou'st been to the Thorn and Thistle after that Polly
Powell lass. Ay, you ninny. I thought you looked higher nor that.
What about Alice Lister?"

"She's got too much pie-jaw for me," said Tom sulkily. "I'm noan goin'
to be a Methody parson."

"Thou'st goin' to be a bigger fool than I thought tha ever could be,"
retorted his mother angrily.

"That tak's a bit o' doin'," replied Tom as he fumbled with his boot
laces.

"Thou'st gi'en up a nice lass for a brazen-faaced 'uzzy; thou'rt an
addle-'eaded ninny. Can'st'a see?"

"Ay, I tak' after my mother," was Tom's reply as he made his way
upstairs. "Bein' fools runs in the family."

"It must or I should never 'a' reared thee," shouted his mother after
him.

CHAPTER II

What I have related took place on the first Sunday in June in the year
1914.