`You think of getting your work done and not talking so much,' said Mr Pappleworth. `You could ha' been finishing off.'
`You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!' cried Polly, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing.
`Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!' he mocked. `Here's your new lad. Don't ruin him as you did the last.'
`"As we did the last!"' repeated Polly. `Yes, we do a lot of ruining, we do. My word, a lad would take some ruining after he'd been with you.'
`It's time for work now, not for talk,' said Mr Pappleworth severely and coldly.
`It was time for work some time back,' said Polly, marching away with her head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty.
In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the window. Through the inner doorway was another, longer room, with six more machines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed and in white aprons, stood talking together.
`Have you nothing else to do but talk?' said Mr Pappleworth.
`Only wait for you,' said one handsome girl, laughing.
`Well, get on, get on,' he said. `Come on, my lad. You'll know your road down here again.'
And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking and invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrable handwriting. Presently Mr Jordan came strutting down from the glass office and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a red and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in.
`Mr J. A. Bates, Esquire!' exclaimed the cross voice just behind his ear.
Paul looked at `Mr J. A. Bates, Esquire' in his own vile writing, and wondered what was the matter now.
`Didn't they teach you any better than that while they were at it? If you put "Mr" you don't put "Esquire"-- a man can't be both at once.'
The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours, hesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the `Mr'. Then all at once Mr Jordan snatched away the invoice.
`Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?' And he tore up the blue form irritably.
Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr Jordan watched.
`I don't know what they do teach in school. You'll have to write better than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?' he asked of Mr Pappleworth.
`Yes; prime, isn't it?' replied Mr Pappleworth indifferently.
Mr Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that his master's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer, although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his men alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not look like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his rôle of proprietor at first, to put things on a right footing.
`Let's see, what's your name?' asked Mr Pappleworth of the boy.