“At—at Mr Blakeford’s,” I faltered, feeling bound to speak the truth.
“Blakeford’s! Blakeford’s!—I know no Blakeford’s. At machine?”
“No, sir! I wrote all day.”
“Wrote? What, wasn’t it a printing-office?”
“No, sir.”
“How dare you come wasting my time like this, you insolent young scoundrel! Be off! Get out with you! I never knew such insolence in my life.”
I shrank away, trembling, and began to retreat down the avenue, this time with the men’s faces towards me, ready to gaze in my red and guilty countenance, for I felt as if I had been guilty of some insult to the majesty of the printing-office. To my great relief, though, the men were too busy to notice me; but I heard one say to another, “Old Brimstone’s hot this morning.” Then I passed on, and saw the dark man looking at me silently from beneath his overhanging brows; and the next moment, heartsick and choking with the effects of this rebuff, the swing-door was thrown open by the fat-headed boy coming in, and as I passed out, unaccustomed to its spring, the boy contrived that it would strike me full in the back, just as if the overseer had given me a rude push to drive me away.
I descended the stairs with the spirit for the moment crushed out of me; and with my eyes dim with disappointment, I was passing along the passage, when, as I came to the open door of the carpeted room, a man’s voice exclaimed—
“No, no, Miss Carr, you really shall not. We’ll send it on by one of the boys.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mr Lister; I can carry it.”