“Just stand there for a minute,” said Mr. Mergleson, “and when I’m at libbuty I’ll run through your duties.” And almost ostentatiously he gave himself up to the enjoyment of his cup of tea.
Three other gentlemen in deshabille sat at table with Mr. Mergleson. They regarded young Bealby with attention, and the youngest, a red-haired, barefaced youth in shirt-sleeves and a green apron was moved to a grimace that was clearly designed to echo the scowl on young Bealby’s features.
The fury that had been subdued by a momentary awe of Mr. Mergleson revived and gathered force. Young Bealby’s face became scarlet, his eyes filled with tears and his mind with the need for movement. After all,—he wouldn’t stand it. He turned round abruptly and made for the door.
“Where’n earth you going to?” cried Mr. Mergleson.
“He’s shy!” cried the second footman.
“Steady on!” cried the first footman and had him by the shoulder in the doorway.
“Lemme go!” howled the new recruit, struggling. “I won’t be a blooming servant. I won’t.”
“Here!” cried Mr. Mergleson, gesticulating with his teaspoon, “bring ’im to the end of the table there. What’s this about a blooming servant?”
Bealby, suddenly blubbering, was replaced at the end of the table.
“May I ask what’s this about a blooming servant?” asked Mr. Mergleson.