Part 42 (1/2)

The other looked disappointed and stopped.

”I'm sorry,” he said. ”We thought you were. There were rumours”--he hesitated, ”if you are not coming perhaps it is no good showing you.

It makes a difference.”

”I want to see where the people live,” insisted Christopher, looking him squarely in the face.

The other nodded and they went on and came to a narrow street of mean, two-storied houses, with cracked walls and warped door-posts, blackened with smoke, begrimed with dirt. As much of the spring suns.h.i.+ne as struggled through the haze overshadowing the place served but to emphasise the hideous squalor of it. Children, for the most part st.u.r.dy-limbed and well-developed, swarmed in the road, women in a more or less dishevelled condition stared out of open doors at them as they pa.s.sed.

To the secret surprise of Fulner his companion made no remark, betrayed no sign of disgust or distaste. He looked at it all; his face was grave and impa.s.sive and Fulner was again disappointed.

They pa.s.sed a glaring new public house, the only spot in the neighbourhood where the sun could find anything to reflect his clouded brightness.

”We wanted that corner for a club,” said Fulner bitterly, ”but the brewer outbid us.”

”Who's the landlord?” demanded Christopher sharply.

Fulner paused a moment before he answered.

”You are a cousin of Mr. Masters, aren't you?”

”No relation at all. Is he the landlord?”

”The land here is all his. Not what is on it.”

A woman was coming down the road, a woman in a bright green dress with a dirty lace blouse fastened with a gold brooch. She had turquoise earrings in her ears and rings on her fingers.

She stopped Fulner.

”Mr. Fulner,” she said in a quavering voice, ”they say the master's at the works and that Scott's given Jim away to save his own skin. It isn't true, is it?”

Fulner looked at her with pity. Christopher liked him better than ever.

”I'm afraid it's true, Mrs. Lawrie, but Scott couldn't help himself.

Mr. Masters spotted the game when we were in the big engine-room. You go down to the main gate and wait for Jim. Perhaps you'll get him home safe if you take him the short cut, not this way.” He nodded his head towards the public house they had pa.s.sed.

”It's a shame,” broke out the woman wildly, but her sentences were overlaid with unwomanly words, ”they all does it. I ask now, how's we to get coal at all if we don't get the leavings. Jim only does what they all does. What's 'arf a pail of coal to 'im? I'd like to talk to 'un, I would. Jim will go mad again, and I've three of 'un now to think of, the brats.” She flung up her arms with a superbly helpless gesture and stumbled off down the road.

Christopher looked after her with a white face.

”What does it mean?” he asked.

”The men have a way of appropriating the remains of the last measure of coal they put on before going off duty. It's wrong of course: it's been going on for ages. I warned Scott--he's the foreman. They've been complaining about the coal supply at headquarters. Mr. Masters caught Jim Lawrie at it to-day as we left the big engine-room.”

”Is it a first offence?”

”There's no first offence here,” returned Fulner grimly. ”There's one only. There's the club room. We have to pay 20 a year rent for the ground and then to keep it going.”

”But surely, Mr. Masters----” began Christopher and stopped.