"Er—yes, I think I am. At least, I sometimes do." David was not sure whether he ought to be deferential, or affable, or non-committal. He always found it hard work to differentiate between the manners one assumed when dealing with editors, fellow journalists, labour delegates and creditors. Also he was not sure whether there really was a smudge of ink on his nose.
The person went straight to the point.
"My name's Hunting. I am the Secretary of the Northern Branch of the F.L.U. You may have seen a letter I wrote to the Clarion a fortnight ago, as it appeared immediately below an article of yours."
"Oh, I know. On the possibility of working up the East Riding. I thought it was splendid—at least, I liked the idea of getting a union started there. Please sit down. Have you had lunch?"
"Yes, thank you." Hunting sat.
"Do you mind if I go on with mine? I had a rather sketchy breakfast. It's just as well that you have lunched, because this is a very hard steak. Do you know whether they ever try to unfreeze meat before they put it on the table? I think this a piece of fossilized dynosaurus. However," with a sigh, "it's a good exercise for the digestive organs, I suppose." He resumed his labours.
"I hear you went for a tour round East Yorkshire this spring?"
"Oh, no, not spring. March, if you like, and the beginning of April, but nothing even remotely connected with spring, I do assure you. If you could have seen some of those roads, and felt the wind across the hills——! Not spring, Mr. Hunting."
"You went to observe the conditions among the labourers and to do a certain amount of propaganda on our behalf, I believe?"
"You seem to know a lot about me." David looked sideways at a speck of dust floating on his beer. He was not very favourably impressed by this intimidating person, with his determination to avoid side-issues.