“It’s Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to meet him here at ten o’clock; but”—looking at his watch—“I’m rather before my time.”
“He’ll be here presently, I suppose,” added Mr Sweater. “I’ll just take a look round till he comes.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room.
Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.
Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman’s room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the price of a little light refreshment.
“I think,” he remarked, “that we oughter see-ise this ’ere tuneropperty to touch ’im for an allowance.”
“We won’t git nothin’ out of ’IM, mate,” returned Newman. “’E’s a red-’ot teetotaller.”
“That don’t matter. ’Ow’s ’e to know that we buys beer with it? We might ’ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all ’e knows!”
Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with respectful cordiality:
“Good morning, sir.”