“I’m glad you are early,” she said, “though it wouldn’t have mattered so much this morning. The master isn’t up yet. He was out late last night, and I warrant will be in a rare tantrum when he wakes. And how do you like your new work?”
“Better when I’ve finished than when I begin,” replied Martin, smiling. “The basket is very heavy at the start, and it makes me very tired this hot weather.”
“Never mind; it’s something to be working for the King’s baker, and I hope you’ll get on. There now! What did I say!”
Mr. Slocum had just called “Sally!” from below stairs, and his voice certainly sounded far from good-tempered.
“Coming, sir,” the cook answered, and hurried to the head of the staircase.
“I want you to go at once to the dairyman’s in Milk Street and complain of the mouldy cheese he sent me. Tell him it’s not fit for pigs, and if he can’t serve me better I’ll deal elsewhere.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sally. “I’ll just fetch my shawl.”
“Nonsense, woman; you don’t need your shawl a hot day like this. Get away at once, and be sure you don’t mince matters.”
Martin heard Mr. Slocum’s loud angry tones distinctly. The cook hurried downstairs, her master talking at her all the time. As soon as she had left the house Mr. Slocum dashed up the stairs, and Martin realised that his retreat was cut off. He had no fear of his old employer, but was not at all eager to meet him.
By the time Mr. Slocum reached the kitchen door, Martin had stepped back into the shelter afforded by the jutting corner of a large cupboard. Mr. Slocum came in hurriedly, turned the key in the door, and went straight across the room to another door that led into a passage and thence into his private room.