“That suits to a T,” said Madge.
“Yes; and, but hallo! what have we here?” said Phil, with a look of dismay.
“What is it?” asked his mother and Madge in the same breath, with looks of real anxiety.
“Well, well, it’s too bad,” said Phil slowly, “it says here that I’m to have ‘no claim on the superannuation fund.’ Isn’t that hard?”
A smile from Mrs Maylands, and a laugh from Madge, greeted this. It was also received with an appalling yell from the baby, which caused mother and nurse to leap to the rescue. That sprout of mischief, in the course of an experimental tour of the premises, had climbed upon a side-table, had twisted his right foot into the loop of the window-curtains, had fallen back, and hung, head downwards, howling.
Having been comforted with bread and treacle, and put to bed, the committee meeting was resumed.
“Well, then,” said Phil, consulting his paper again, “I give up the superannuation advantages. Then, as to wages, seven shillings a week, rising to eight shillings after one year’s service. Why, it’s a fortune! Any man at my age can live on sixpence a day easy—that’s three-and-six, leaving three-and-six a week clear for you, mother. Then there’s a uniform; just think o’ that!”
“I wonder what sort of uniform it is,” said Madge.
“A red coat, Madge, and blue trousers with silver lace and a brass helmet, for certain—”
“Don’t talk nonsense, boy,” interrupted Mrs Maylands, “but go on with the paper.”