Martin’s first hour’s experience as baker’s boy was by no means pleasant. Mr. Faryner’s customers had been kept waiting for their morning rolls and loaves, and at nearly every house where Martin called he was received with dark looks and cutting words.
He took it all in good part, explained that he was a new boy, and promised to be earlier on the morrow. As the basket became lighter he grew more cheerful, and by the time he reached Bow Lane he had almost forgotten the forebodings with which he had started.
Turning into the yard by which he would reach the back entrance to Mr. Slocum’s house he suddenly collided with a boy coming in the opposite direction. He was turning round; the basket was jerked off his arm, and the two loaves it contained rolled out on the cobblestones.
“Now, clumsy, why don’t you look where you are going?” said a well-remembered voice.
Martin had already recognised his old opponent, the apprentice through whom he had been dismissed. He was himself recognised before he could say a word in reply, and for a moment or two the boys stared at each other. Then the apprentice laughed.
“Dash my eyes!” he said. “Do I see Martin Leake?”
Without waiting for an answer he swooped on the loaves, picked them up, rubbed the dust off on his breeches, and rushed back into the open doorway of the house.
“Sally, here’s Martin Leake turned baker’s boy,” Martin heard him shout.
In a few seconds he came out again followed by the cook with the loaves in her hands. Martin had picked up his basket, and was standing just outside the door.
“Well I never!” exclaimed the cook, who had always been well disposed towards Martin. “So you are working for Faryner, are you? I was wondering what had come to the boy. Mr. Slocum is in a towering rage because he’s been kept waiting for his breakfast. I’ll just send up the bread, then I’ll come back, Master Hopton; mind you that.”