MORNING SERIAL

THE nine months he had been unemployed had added to his knowledge, a knowledge acquired not from books alone, but from his own observations of life around him, and he valued his experience, brief though it was.

This summer he would matriculate. That was his intention. He was now seventeen. Another year, and he hoped to be free of the foundry.

He wrote in his notebooks, conveying his impressions rapidly, filing them away into a small cupboard in his bedroom. Occasionally, he would take them out, glance through the pages, re-reading what he had written. Pausing to alter a phrase here and there. Trying to acquire form, a style of his own.

Frank had seen very little of him during the time they had been out of work, but now that the foundry had restarted he would call in at the coreshop whenever he had an opportunity.

“Met your old headmaster, Ellis Griffiths, the other night,” he remarked one afternoon during a break between the casts.

“Doris and I were beginning to wonder what had happened to you, Ieuan, but Ellis told me you were concentrating on your studies. Your nose deep in books. What’s your intention, Ieuan? Going in for some exam?”

Ieuan told him of his hopes, and felt heartened when Frank complimented him.

“You’ll be out of this place sooner than you know it, boy. Stick to your books. Don’t be a darn fool to let yourself get into a rut, as I did. And good luck to you, Ieuan. All the same, don’t overdo it. Get out sometimes. Have a little enjoyment. All work and no play — well, you know the old saying. Drop over to see Doris and me sometime. Any time you feel like it. She’d like to see you again. Kind of empty house, without someone to call around for a chat now and again.”

Bull Jackson, bored by the long period of inactivity, appeared glad to be back at work again, and for the first few weeks concentrated on his job at the bench, much to Abraham’s amazement and relief.