“I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days.”
“Better say a few weeks. You’ve no notion of the difficulty we have in trying to meet every one’s wishes. Say before Christmas—and the same with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing the things really cuts into the profits terribly.”
“Could we do any of it down here?” said Reginald. “Love and I have often nothing to do.”
It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement.
“You’re very good,” said Mr Medlock; “but I shouldn’t think of it. We want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You won’t want it for a few days.”
Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold.
After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said good morning.
“I may have to run up to town for a few days,” he said, “but I shall see you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel.”
Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock’s departure to dive into the mystery of Trumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark, in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr Medlock’s wake down the street.
At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up.