Reginald’s eyes blazed out for a moment on the speaker in a way which made Horace, who heard and saw all, tremble. But he overcame himself with a mighty effort, and said,—
“Where?”
Mr Durfy glanced round the room.
“Young Gedge!” he called out.
A boy answered the summons.
“Clear that rack between you and Barber, and put up a pair of cases for this fool here, and look after him. Off you go! and off you go,” added he, rounding on Reginald, “and if we don’t make it hot for you among us I’m precious mistaken.”
It was a proud moment certainly for the cock of the fifth at Wilderham to find himself following meekly at the heels of a youngster like Gedge, who had been commissioned to put him to work and look after him. But Reginald was too sick at heart and disgusted to care what became of himself, as long as Mr Durfy’s odious voice ceased to torment his ears. The only thing he did care about was what was to become of Horace. Was he to be put in charge of some one too, or was he to remain a printer’s devil?
Mr Durfy soon answered that question.
“What are you standing there for?” demanded he, turning round on the younger brother as soon as he had disposed of the elder. “Go down to the manager’s room at once; you’re not wanted here.”
So they were to be separated! There was only time to exchange one glance of mutual commiseration and then Horace slowly left the room with sad forebodings, more on his brother’s account than his own, and feeling that as far as helping one another was concerned they might as well be doomed to serve their time at opposite ends of London.