“You’re not leaving to-day?” he cried, aghast.
“If it’s just the same to you, sor,” said Bridget. “We’ve both got places beginnin’ to-morry.”
“But who’ll cook my––”
“Niver you worry about that, sor; I’ve left a dozen av eggs, some bacon, rolls, and––”
“All right. Good-bye,” broke in the master, turning away.
“Good luck, sor,” said Bridget, amiably. Then they went away.
His dismal reflections were broken by the foreman, who found him in the kitchen.
“We’ll be back early in the morning and clean up everything. The van will be here at 194 ten. Is everything here to go to the warehouse? I notice some things that look as though they might belong to you personally.”
There were a few pieces of furniture and bric-à-brac that Harvey could claim as his own. He stared gloomily at the floor for a long time, thinking. Of what use were they to him now? And where was he to put them in case he claimed them?
“I guess you’d better store everything,” he said, dejectedly. “They—they all go together.”