“I din’ mean you,” said William pacifically. “P’raps it’s a place where they make plots.”
The boy relapsed into boredom. “I dunno what they make,” he said. “Only came this mornin’. They’ve gorn off to ’is aunt but the other one—she’s still here, you bet, a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ at her bell, an’ givin’ no one peace nowheres.” He warmed to his theme. “I wouldn’ve come if I’d knowed. House-maid went off yesterday wivout notice. She’d ’ad as much as she wanted an’ only the ole cook—well I’m, not used to places wiv only a ole cook ’sides meself an’ her upstairs a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ at her bell an’ givin’ no one no peace nowheres an’ the other two off to their aunt’s. No place fit to call a place I don’t call it.” He spat viciously into his powder. “Yus, an’ anyone can have my job.”
“Can I?” said William eagerly.
During the last few minutes a longing to make paste by spitting into a powder and then to clean silver with it had grown in William’s soul till it was a consuming passion.
The boy looked at him in surprise and suspicion, not sure whether the question was intended as an insult.
“What you doin’ an’ where you come from?” he demanded aggressively.
“Been fishin’,” said William, “an’ I jolly nearly caught a salmon.”
The boy looked out of the window. It was still the first real day of Spring.
“Crumbs!” he said enviously, “fishin’.” He gazed with distaste at his work, “an me muckin’ about with this ’ere.”
“Well,” suggested William simply, “you go out an’ fish an’ I’ll go on muckin’ about with that.”