“No one’s obliged to live in them.”
“There are no others,” persisted Mr. Murray desperately, imperilling his own safety for the cause.
Masters frowned ominously.
“Mr. Murray,” he said, “as I have before remarked, you are too far-sighted. Your work is to sell the ground for the benefit of the company, which, I may remind you, is for your benefit also. You have not to build the cottages or live in them. If the people don’t like them they needn’t take them. I do not profess to house the people. I pay them accordingly. They can afford to live in decent houses if they like.”
“If they can get them,” remarked the heroic Mr. Murray.
Peter smiled, his anger apparently having melted away.
“Let them arrange it with Fortman, and keep your obstinacy for more profitable business, Murray, and you’ll be as rich as I am some day.”
There was nothing apparently offensive in the words, yet the speaker seemed a singularly unlovable person as he spoke them, and Murray did not smile at the compliment, but went out with a grave air.
Neither he nor his business lingered on Peter’s mind once the door had closed behind him. Peter got up and lounged to the window. He stood a while looking down into the street below with its crowd of strangely foreshortened figures. On the opposite side of the wide street was a shop where mechanical toys were sold, a paradise for boys. As Peter watched, a chubby-faced, stout little man with a tall, lanky boy at his side came to a stand before the windows. Peter 133 knew the man to be one of the hardest-headed, shrewdest men in the iron trade, and he guessed the boy was his son. Both figures disappeared within the shop, the elder with evident reluctance, the younger with assured expectation. Peter waited a long time—a longer period than he would have supposed he had to spare, had he thought of it. They emerged at last in company with a big parcel, hailed a hansom and drove away. Peter looked at the clock and chuckled. “To think Coblan is that sort of fool. Well, that youngster will add little to the fortunes of Coblan and Company. Toys!” He turned away from the window, and, seated again at his desk, began to scribble down some dates on a scrap of paper. Then he leant back in his chair thoughtfully.
“Hibbault says that boy has just got a rise in that berth of his in Liverpool. I’ll let him have a year or so more to prove his grit. I suppose Hibbault’s to be trusted, but I might write to the firm and ask how he gets on! However, Aymer’s boy shall have the vacancy!”