Western Mail

MORNING SERIAL

- Farewell Innocence by William Glynne-Jones

HE wiped the clay stains and thrust the waste into Ieuan’s hands. “Dress yourself, boy,” he said kindly. “I’ll find out who’s responsibl­e for this outrage, and then,” his voice grew cold, “God help them!” Casting a vindictive glance in Abraham’s direction, he went on his way.

Ieuan dressed. Shamefaced­ly, he returned to the bench, conscious that the charge-hand was furious with him. A hush fell over the coreshop, a strained silence which was felt by everyone there.

Presently the foundry door opened, and the young moulder, Frank Jones, whitefaced and angry, strode in.

“Who’s to blame for ragging that boy?” He pointed a quivering finger. No one answered. “Who was it?” he demanded again. He glared at Abraham. “Come on, speak up!” Abraham turned his back to him.

“Right-ho – if that’s how you feel. I’ll damn well make it my business to find out. There’s a limit to everything, and this persecutio­n’s got to stop before something really serious happens.” Frank stalked out of the shop, his fists clenched, and as soon as he had gone, Abraham spun round.

“See the trouble you’re causing me,” he complained. “Not a minute has gone by without you being in some scrape. Haven’t I told you often enough to leave those ruffians in there alone? Sick and tired, I am, fed up to the teeth with all this hotch-potch.” Thomas jumped to Ieuan’s defence.

“Aw, shut up, Abraham. Shut your trap. You’re too bloomin’ windy to do anything. You know who’s responsibl­e. Every apprentice goes through the same thing, and you don’t do nothing to stop it.

“All you do is complain and grumble like an old woman. And that’s what you are — a proper old granny.”

Abraham almost danced in his temper. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he stormed. “There’s no new boy given me all this trouble, and well you know it. Ever since he put his foot in here there’s been one fandangle after another. He should use his sense, and keep away from them fellows in the steel shop.

“And as for you, my lad, you’d better control that tongue of yours. The impudence of you!

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