George shrank from their inquisitive, staring eyes. He hunched his great shoulders and hurried on towards the headmaster’s office.
The headmaster looked up from his desk and frowned at them. He was a little man, thin and old. Two or three strands of greying hair had been carefully plastered across the baldness of his head. His large, mild eyes were tired, and his shoulders, under his shabby coat, drooped as if the burden of his responsibilities were too much for him
“Good afternoon, Mr Pickthorn,” George said, with the overpowering heartiness he always assumed when working. “What a magnificent day! Too good to be in, but we’ve all got our living to make, haven’t we?” He stood over the headmaster, large, friendly, anxious to please. “We can’t all go gadding about when there’s work to be done, can we? Noses to the grindstones, eh?” He lowered his voice and winked. “Not that you and me wouldn’t like to be at Lord’s today.”
It had taken George some time to conquer his shyness when meeting strangers, but now that he was sure of what he was going to say, he was becoming quite a fluent, if automatic talker. He hoped that Brant was being impressed. That’d show him how to talk to prospects. Brant would have to shake up his ideas if he thought he was going to make a successful salesman. People liked to have someone call on them who was cheerful and bright.
Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. “Ali,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, Lord’s.” Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don’t care. At least, they don’t look away when I talk to them.
Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, “I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I’d pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?”
Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. “No,” he said, without looking at either of them. “No, I’m afraid they aren’t.”
George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.
“Well, never mind,” he said, with a fixed smile. “You don’t have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you’ll find time to get them done tomorrow.”
Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He’s quite right, of course. I wasn’t thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I’ve known the Ch ild’s Self-Educator fo r many years, but as Mr Herring pointed out, it’s encouraging canvassers, and the Council doesn’t approve.” He opened a drawer and took out the packet of printed forms that George had left with him the day before. “I’m sorry,” he went on, pushing the forms across the desk to George. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He gave George a fleeting, embarrassed smile, again glanced at Brant, and then pulled a pile of papers towards him.