Martin did not venture to say what he thought.
“Well, he’ll never darken my doors again, that’s certain. And that reminds me. There’s his basket—the loaves ought to have been delivered an hour ago. I was already one boy short, and the rascal knew it, and yet he came late. I shall lose some of my best customers.”
The greater part of the sticky mass had now been plucked from the baker’s head. He looked ruefully at the basket of loaves in a corner of the shop, scratched his head, became conscious that there were still some fragments of dough adhering to his short-clipped hair, and burst out again into violent denunciation of his errand boy.
On the impulse of the moment Martin spoke up.
“I’ll take the basket. I’m out of a job.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the baker, looking at him keenly as if he was only just aware of him. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Martin Leake.”
“Are you honest?”
“Won’t you try me?”
“That’s not a bad answer. You’ve done me a service and I like the look of you. I’ll try you. Here’s a list of the customers these loaves are to be delivered to. Set off at once. Nay, wait! I don’t like changes. If I try you, and you satisfy me, I shall expect you to stick to the job. Five shillings a week and a loaf a day. That’s my wages.”