Reginald walked through them to the passage outside, not much caring where he went or whom he met. If he were to meet Mr Barber, or Mr Durfy, or the manager himself, so much the better. As it happened, he met Horace, looking comparatively cheerful, with some papers in his hand.
“Hullo, Reg,” said he; “have they promoted you to a ‘printer’s devil’ too? Fancy what Bland would say if he saw us! Never mind, there’s four hours gone, and in about another six we shall be home with mother again.”
“I shall be home before then,” said Reg. “I’m going now. I can’t stand it, Horace.”
Horace stared at his brother in consternation.
“Oh, Reg, old man, you mustn’t; really you mustn’t. Do let’s stick together, however miserable it is. It’s sure to seem worse at first.”
“It’s all very well for you, Horace, doing messenger work. You haven’t been set to sweep out a room.”
Horace whistled.
“Whew! that is a drop too much! But,” he added, taking his brother’s arm, “don’t cut it yet, old man, for mother’s sake, don’t. I’ll come and help you do it if I can. Why couldn’t they have given it me to do, and let you go the messages!”
Reginald said nothing, but let his brother lead him back slowly to the big room presided over by Mr Durfy.
“Where is it?” Horace inquired of him at the door.