"Thee will put on thy apron, friend," calmly repeated Samuel Lynn.
"I hate the apron," fumed Cyril, jerking open another drawer, and jerking out his apron; for he might not openly disobey the authority of Samuel Lynn. "I should think I am the first gentleman that ever was made to wear one."
"If thee are practically engaged in a glove manufactory, thee must wear an apron, gentleman or no gentleman," equably returned the Quaker. "As we all do."
"All don't!" retorted Cyril. "The master does not."
"Thee are not in the master's position yet, Cyril Dare. And I would advise thee to exercise thy discretion more and thy tongue less."
The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Ashley, and the room dropped into silence. There might be no presuming in the presence of the master. He sat down to his desk, and opened his morning letters. Presently a young man put his head in and addressed Samuel Lynn.
"Noaks, the stainer, has come in, sir. He says the skins given out to him yesterday would be better for coloured than blacks."
"Desire James Meeking to attend to him," said Mr. Lynn.
"James Meeking isn't here, sir. He's up in the cutters' room, or somewhere."
Samuel Lynn, upon this, went out himself. Cyril Dare followed him. Cyril was rather fond of taking short trips about the manufactory, as interludes to his work. Soon after, the master lifted his head.