“You can’t work to-day. It doesn’t signify. And about the cash—”
“Thanks, but—”
“Now, now, we’re not going to quarrel, are we? The work’s been pretty thick this winter. I’m rather thinking you’ve done rather more than your share. It would make things more comfortable, now—wouldn’t it?”
Murchison gave a kind of groan.
“It’s good of you, Tugler.”
“Oh, bosh, man! Am I a bit of flint? Call it another pound a week. It isn’t much at that. I’ll send you a fiver on account.”
He gave his hat a last rub, crammed it on his head, and walked hurriedly towards the door.
“It’s good of you, Tugler. I—”
“All right. I don’t want it talked about.”
The little man was already in the hall, and fumbling for the handle of the front door. He opened it, slipped out like a guilty debtor, and crunched down the gravel, swearing to himself after the manner of the egregious male.