“Ah,” said Rupert happily. That was his secret, that intimate ideal which Sir Philip had revealed only to his son. He hadn’t, perhaps, the soundest evidence for supposing that the confidence had been uniquely to him, but in his present dilemma it seemed entirely satisfactory—a way out and a way down. And, after all, he came down by a ladder.
A great noise filled the room, ear-splitting, nerve-jarring to those who were not used to it. Rupert was not used to it, but for a moment wondered if it were external or the turmoil of his thoughts. “Only the buzzer,” William smiled.
“Staithley goes home,” said Tom.
But not yet. The Chief Cashier knocked perfunctorily on the door and came in with the bland air of one who had the entree at all times. “If Sir Rupert could speak to the workpeople,” he said. “Word was passed that he is here. This window looks upon the yard. May I open it?”
Rupert paused for one of time’s minor fractions, and his head jerked as his father’s used to jerk. “Mr. Bradshaw,” he said, “will you step to the window with us?”
It was grand; it was too grand; it was a gesture which began finely and ran to seed like rhubarb. It was florid when he wanted to be simple and he harked back in mind to a Punch cartoon of some years earlier, representing the Yellow Press as a horrible person up to the knee in mud, calling out, “Chuck us another ha’penny and I’ll wallow in it.” He felt himself up to the midriff in a mud of sentimentality; for two pins, he would with ironic grace wallow in the mud. His surrender was too loathsome and insincere: he held out his hand to Tom, feeling that he was going the whole hog, parading his humiliation before the men and women of Hepplestall’s who had the idiotic wish to salute a traitor as their prince.
Tom offered first aid here and shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ve to be careful what company I keep in public. I’m Member for Staithley, but I’m Labor Member and you’re Capital.”
“Aren’t we to work together in the future?” asked Rupert.
“If they see me standing there with you, they’ll throw brickbats at me, and some of them will hit you. You’ve a lot to learn, Sir Rupert. Old-fashioned Labor men like me, that want to hurry slowly, are between the devil and the deep sea. If I show myself standing by the devil, the sea will come up and drown me.”
“By George,” said Rupert, feeling half clean of mud and insincerity, “by George, this is going to be interesting. I’ve... I’ve a lot to learn, haven’t I?”