Paul took his place amongst the depressed little crowd at two o’clock that afternoon, and worked away among them until two o’clock on the following Saturday. A little before that hour it became evident that something was wrong. An excited little man ran into the dingy room, and began a whispered conversation with the tired dyspeptic.
‘But, my God!’ said the latter, in a tearful voice; ‘I must have it I’ve got my men to pay.’
At this everybody pricked an ear.
‘It’s all right, old man,’ said the other. ‘Here’s the cheque, and it’s as good as the Bank of England. But I’ve only just this minute got it. It’s after one o’clock, and it’s Saturday, and the Bank’s closed. What am I to do?
‘I don’t care what you do. Get somebody to cash it for you, I suppose. I’ve got to have the money. Here’s all the bills made out, and in ten minutes the men’ll be waiting.’
‘Well,’ said the man, I’ll try. It ain’t my fault, Johnny.’
He ran out as excitedly as he had entered, and the men stopped work by common consent, and struggled into their coats.
‘It’s bad enough,’ said one of them, ‘to work for two-thirds money even when you get it.’
Nobody else said anything. The dyspeptic foreman drew a case out of a rack near the wall, and sat down upon it. The rest hung about dispiritedly, and waited for what might transpire.
Two or three gathered round the imposing-surface.