The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists [18]
about for some time, but could not make it come right. At last he gave it up.
`I suppose it'll have to have two coats after all,' he said, mournfully. `But it's a thousand pities.'
He almost wept.
The firm would be ruined if things went on like this.
`You'd better go on with it,' he said as he laid down the brush.
He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away.
No one saw him go.
For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps.
No one dared to speak.
At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty.
He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.
He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room. Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know.
Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. `Was it gorn or not?' he wondered.
He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. `Do you think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's door.
`I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone.
Philpot wondered. He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not.
At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more cement. Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again.
`Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice.
`No,' replied Owen. `I'm not using it.'
`Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything I can bring up for you?'
`No, thanks,' replied Owen.
Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized as a paint-shop. Crass was there mixing some colour.
`I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some.
`Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass.
`I don't know,' replied Philpot. `Where's his bike?'
`'E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied Crass.
`Tell you what,' whispered Philpot, after a pause. `Give the boy a hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there. If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil.'
This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth.
`Thank Gord!' said one.
`Hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another.
`These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,' cried a third.
Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.
One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not smoke
`I suppose it'll have to have two coats after all,' he said, mournfully. `But it's a thousand pities.'
He almost wept.
The firm would be ruined if things went on like this.
`You'd better go on with it,' he said as he laid down the brush.
He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away.
No one saw him go.
For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps.
No one dared to speak.
At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty.
He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.
He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room. Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know.
Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. `Was it gorn or not?' he wondered.
He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. `Do you think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's door.
`I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone.
Philpot wondered. He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not.
At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more cement. Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again.
`Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice.
`No,' replied Owen. `I'm not using it.'
`Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything I can bring up for you?'
`No, thanks,' replied Owen.
Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized as a paint-shop. Crass was there mixing some colour.
`I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some.
`Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass.
`I don't know,' replied Philpot. `Where's his bike?'
`'E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied Crass.
`Tell you what,' whispered Philpot, after a pause. `Give the boy a hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there. If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil.'
This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth.
`Thank Gord!' said one.
`Hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another.
`These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,' cried a third.
Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.
One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not smoke