“You’ve been there a long time,” continued Rushton, “I’ve been watchin’ you all the time I’ve been comin’ down the road.”
Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable to articulate a single word.
“You know, that’s not the way to get on in life, my boy,” observed Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully.
“Get along with you at once!” Rushton said, roughly. “I’m surprised at yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!”
This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at the audacity of the boy. That anyone in his employment should dare to have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible.
The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it up the hill. It seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get on somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and Sweater, who presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart to the kerb again to have a breathe. He couldn’t have kept up much further without a spell even if they had still been watching him, but he didn’t rest for more than about half a minute this time, because he was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at him.
After this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that the journey was practically over.
Just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw Hunter sneak out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to the front door and began carrying in the things. Whilst thus engaged he noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the staircase, and called out to him:
“Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, Joe?”
“Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,” replied Philpot as he hurried down the stairs.