Well, he certainly wasn’t going to mix himself up in Sydney’s racket. He knew instinctively that it was crooked. Sydney was the kind of fellow who’d land up in jail. Jail bait, that’s what he was!
In spite of his instinctive fear of Sydney, George was determined to speak to Cora the next day, Friday. Even if it meant doing no work at all and staying in a telephone box all the evening, he was going to talk to her! He wanted her to spend Saturday evening with him. He planned to take her to a movie and then to dinner somewhere. He had put away the eleven pounds that Sydney had got from Robinson, earmarked for this outing. He was determined to stand treat: he wasn’t going to have any nonsense from Cora about paying for herself. And what was more, when they met he would kiss her: he’d show her he was a man of action.
To be certain of speaking to Cora, he decided not to work that evening. He told Sydney he wasn’t feeling too well. He said he’d drunk some bad beer: it had upset his stomach.
“I think I’ll stay at home,” he said, avoiding Sydney’s probing eyes. “I don’t feel like going out on the job tonight.”
“Please yourself,” Sydney said, shrugging; “it’s your loss. You’d better pull up your socks. You’ve only taken one order this week.”
George didn’t need to be reminded of this unpleasant fact, but he assured himself that once he had seen Cora he would be able to settle down to work again. Selling hooks demanded all your attention. How could he concentrate when he was longing so much to hear Cora’s voice?
As soon as he was sure that Sydney had taken himself off to Wembley, he left his room and hurried to the call-box at the end of his street. At first the line was engaged, then he dialled a wrong number, then he found he hadn’t any more pennies, and he had to go to the newspaper shop across the street to change a shilling. When he got back there was a woman in the box, and she kept him waiting nearly ten minutes. He had ceased to be impatient. He was now obstinately dogged: determined, whatever happened, to speak to Cora. If it took him a hundred years to speak to her, he wouldn’t mind, so long as he succeeded.
At last the woman left the call-box, and George took her place. There was a ghastly smell of cheap scent and stale perspiration in the box: it was like an oven, too. But George didn’t care. He dialled the greengrocer’s number and waited.
“’Ullo?” asked the irritatingly familiar voice.
They went through the same dreary performance: the greengrocer wanting to know “’ow I can leave the bloomin’ shop?” and George coldly determined that the greengrocer should call Cora to the telephone.