“Mr Durfy’s—”
“That will do. Here you,” said the manager, opening the door, and speaking to the nearest workman, “tell Mr Durfy to step here.”
Mr Durfy appeared in a very brief space.
“Durfy,” said the manager, wrathfully, “what do you mean by having this room in such a filthy mess? Aren’t your instructions to have it swept out once a week? When was it swept last?”
“Some little time ago. We’ve been so busy in our department, sir, that—”
“Yes, I know; you always say that. I’m sick of hearing it. Don’t let me find this sort of thing again. Send some one at once to sweep it out; this lad doesn’t know how to hold a broom. Take care it’s done by four o’clock, and ready for use. Pheugh! it’s enough to choke one.”
And the manager went off in a rage, coughing.
Satisfactory as this was, in a certain sense, for Reginald, it was not a flattering way of ending his difficulties, nor did the spirit in which Mr Durfy accepted his chief’s reprimand at all tend to restore him to cheerfulness.
“Bah, you miserable idiot, you! Give up that broom, and get out of this, or I’ll chuck you out.”
“I don’t think you will,” said Reginald, coolly dropping the broom and facing his enemy.