“Yes.”
“Some o’ the boys ’ll try a game with ye, p’raps. Don’t mind a little game, do ye?”
“No.”
“Ah, I couldn’t stand it when I was a lad. Made me mis’rable. When ye go in the smiths’ shop to git yer breakfast, look about ye, if they’re special kind findin’ y’ a seat. Up above, f’r instance.”
Johnny left the long man, and presently observed that the foreman was not in the shop. There was an instant slackness perceivable among the younger and less steady men, for the leading hand had no such authority as Cottam. One man at a lathe, throwing out his gear examined his work, and, turning to Johnny, said, “Look ’ere, me lad; I want to true this ’ere bit. Jes’ you go an’ ask Sam Wilkins—that man up at the end there, in the serge jacket—jes’ you go an’ ask ’im for the round square.”
Johnny knew the tool called a square, used for testing the truth of finished work, though he had never seen a round one. Howbeit he went off with alacrity: but it seemed that Sam Wilkins hadn’t the round square. It was Joe Mills, over in the far corner. So he tried Joe Mills; but he, it seemed, had just lent it to Bob White, at the biggest shaping-machine near the other end. Bob White understood perfectly, but thought he had last seen the round square in the possession of George Walker. Whereas George Walker was perfectly certain that it had gone downstairs to Bill Cook in the big shop. Doubting nothing from the uncommonly solemn faces of Sam and Joe and Bob and George, Johnny set off down the stone stairs, where he met the ascending gaffer, on his way back from the pattern-maker’s shop.
“’Ullo boy,” he said, “where you goin’?”
“Downstairs, sir, for the round square.”
Mr. Cottam’s eyes grew more prominent, and there were certain sounds, as of an imprisoned bull-frog, from somewhere deep in his throat. But his expression relaxed not a shade. Presently he said, “Know what a round is?”