Brant again jerked the lock of hair out of his eyes, impatiently, irritably. “What makes you think the Company doesn’t pay more than a pound for an order?”
George stared at him. He felt he was on the brink of an unpleasant discovery; something that he didn’t want to hear. “What are you hinting at?” he asked uneasily.
“The Company pays thirty bob on every order sent in. That’s why your pal Robinson makes you send your orders through him He not only takes two bob off you, but ten bob as well. I took the trouble to ’phone the Company and ask them what they’d pay me if I sent in my orders direct. They said thirty bob.”
George suddenly hated this young man with his straw-coloured hair and his disgusting scar. Why couldn’t he have left him in peace? He had trusted Robinson. They had got along fine together. Robinson had been his only companion. Robinson had said that George was his best salesman, and he had given him responsibility. He had always been at hand to smear a paste of flattery on George’s bruised ego. George thought of all the past orders he had given him, and he felt a little sick.
“Oh,” he said, after a long pause, “so that’s how it is, is it?”
Brant finished his lemonade. “Should have thought you’d found that out for yourself,” he said in his soft, clipped voice.
George clenched his fists. “The dirty rat!” he exclaimed, trying to get a vicious look in his eyes. “Why, he’d ’ye been taken for a ride for that if he’d been in the States.”
Brant smiled secretly. “Is that where you come from?”
“Sure,” George said, realizing that this was a chance to reestablish himself. “But it’s some time ago. I must be slipping. Fancy letting a cheap crook like Robinson pull a fast one on me. If ever Kelly got to hear about it, he’d rib me to death.”
The thin, cold face remained expressionless. “Kelly?”