Chapter Thirteen.
Workers at a Train.
“Of course, Orthur, the different grades in this service have to be kept distinct, and the inferiors have to look up to their superiors just as it is in the army.”
“Oh yes, sir, of course,” said the gentleman addressed, squeezing his left eyelids together slightly, unseen by the pompous individual addressing him; “but you can’t say as I haven’t always been respectful and kept my place.”
“Always, Orthur, always, and that’s why I come down a little to you and meet you on equal terms when we are alone, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent young man. What’s that chap staring at?”
“Us, seemingly, Mr Roach, sir,” said the younger man, with a grin. “Book canvasser, that’s what he is; been taking orders of the old chap next door, but didn’t like the look of us, and didn’t try it on. I had a peep through the open door there one day, and it was packed full o’ books like a warehouse, sir.”
“Yes, yes, but never mind that,” said the butler, impatiently. “But as I was saying, I’ve always found you a very respectable young man, Orthur, and I’m disposed to trust you. Service is all very well, Orthur, but there’s no saving money; and when one sees these bookmakers—coarse, beefy-faced butcher or publican sort of fellows—keeping their broughams and driving their phe-aytons, it is tempting.”
“Tempting, Mr Roach,” said the young footman in a quick whisper; “it gives me the agonies. Look at the guv’nors. Why, I met a young chap as I used to know when he was a page in buttons—he’s a six-footer now. Well, he says he knowed our people ten years ago when they were regular hard up. His people used to visit ’em. And now look at ’em. They’re on with some of the knowing ones, and putting money on all the good things. Always winning, they must be. Why, if you and me, Mr Roach, was to put the pot on as they do we should be rich men in five years.”
“Don’t talk so loud, Orthur; some of the women may be up at the windows.”