“No, they are all busy. If I were doing it, I should work without a man.”
“Hang it all! I’m about sick of this,” said Harry, after he had been alone about half an hour, and feeling more disgusted moment by moment with his task. “How mad Aunt Marguerite would be if she could see me now!”
He looked round at the low dirty sheds on one side, at the row of furnaces on the other, two of which emitted a steady roar as the tin within gradually turned from a brown granulated powder to a golden fluid, whose stony scum was floating on the top.
“It’s enough to make any man kick against his fate. Nice occupation for a gentleman, ’pon my word!”
A low whistle made him look up quickly, and his countenance brightened.
“Why, Vic,” he cried; “I thought you were in town.”
“How are you, my Trojan?” cried the visitor boisterously. “I was in town, but I’ve come back. I say, cheerful work this for Monsieur le Comte Henri des Vignes!”
“Don’t chaff a fellow,” said Harry angrily. “What brought you down?”
“Two things.”
“Now, look here, Vic. Don’t say any more about that. Perhaps after a time I may get her to think differently, but now—”