“What do you mean?” snapped Miss Pinnegar.
None the less, Mr. May was dependable in matters of business. He was up at half-past five in the morning, and by seven was well on his way. He sailed like a stiff little ship before a steady breeze, hither and thither, out of Woodhouse and back again, and across from side to side. Sharp and snappy, he was, on the spot. He trussed himself up, when he was angry or displeased, and sharp, snip-snap came his words, rather like scissors.
“But how is it—” he attacked Arthur Witham—“that the gas isn’t connected with the main yet? It was to be ready yesterday.”
“We’ve had to wait for the fixings for them brackets,” said Arthur.
“Had to wait for fixings! But didn’t you know a fortnight ago that you’d want the fixings?”
“I thought we should have some as would do.”
“Oh! you thought so! Really! Kind of you to think so. And have you just thought about those that are coming, or have you made sure?”
Arthur looked at him sullenly. He hated him. But Mr. May’s sharp touch was not to be foiled.
“I hope you’ll go further than thinking,” said Mr. May. “Thinking seems such a slow process. And when do you expect the fittings—?”
“Tomorrow.”