At any rate, he would get clear of Cripps now he had the chance.
As soon as ever morning school was over he took his hat and traversed once more the familiar road between Saint Dominic’s and the Cockchafer. “Is Cripps at home?” he inquired of the potboy.
“Yas,” said the boy. “Who wants him?”
“I do, you young blockhead!”
“You do? Oh, all right! I’ll tell him, mister. Don’t you collar no mugs while I’m gone, mind!”
The very potboys despised and ridiculed him!
Loman waited patiently for a quarter of an hour, when the boy returned.
“Oh!” said he, “the governor can’t see you, he says. He’s a-smoking his pipe, he says, and he ain’t a-goin’ to put himself about, he says, for the likes of you. That’s what he says! Ti ridde tol rol ro!” and here the youth indulged in a spitefully cheerful carol as he resumed the polishing of the mugs.
“Look here!” said Loman, miserable and half frightened, “tell him I must see him; I’ve got some money for him, tell him.”
“No! have you?” said the boy. “Well, wait till I’ve done this here job—I’m dead on this here job, I am! You can keep, you can.”