“Oh, t-t-thank you, t-thank you,” said the boy.
“What’s the screw?” said a handsome, fair-haired fellow to the emissary from high places.
“The salary is ten shillings a week.” The emissary laid a delicate emphasis on the second word.
“Oh, is it?” said the fair-haired fellow. “What’s the hours?”
“Eight till seven,” said the wizened boy.
“Half-day Saturday?”
“On Saturday Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker close at six.”
“Oh, do they! What ’oliday?”
“During the first year there is no holiday,” said the wizened boy, speaking very slowly and distinctly, and laying a delicate emphasis on the last word. “After the first year the holiday, as a rule, is permanent.”
The wizened boy retired from the room with a calmness that could be felt.