"Indeed now! Three! It's a lot of work for one man, too."
"So it is, Mr Jenkins, an' he deserves more pay for the doing of it."
"Indeed and he does, Mr Donovan."
So they went on these two Celts, the small built, swarthy, insidious, oily Welshman, and the brawny, hearty, crafty Irishman; till Carstairs felt an actual physical nausea creeping over him. He had drawn out most of these plans himself, working night and day, calculating, measuring, thinking. And Darwen was going to get a rise. Darwen who had done nothing but stick out for considerably larger engines than Carstairs thought necessary. Darwen who had everything and was even now ensnaring the only girl that Carstairs ever cared for. Jack Carstairs with the great, big, English heart, felt really sick.
At last they went and Carstairs wished them good-night at the door. Shortly after he walked home alone by himself, ruminating on many things.
Next day Darwen returned late in the afternoon. He could read Carstairs like a book, and as he shook hands he saw that something was on his friend's mind.
"What's up, Carstairs?" he asked.
"I called on your mater yesterday, and the girl was gone."
"Ah, the new servant!" Carstairs noted that Darwen was really interested.
"Yes, the new servant. I intend to marry that girl, if she'll have me."