Part 4 (1/2)
The girls left the A.B.C. shop and returned to their work.
Whir! whir! went the big machines. The young heads were bent over their accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which Connie so often looked at went on their way. Slowly--very slowly--the time sped. Would that long day ever come to an end?
The machinists' hours were from eight o'clock in the morning to six in the evening. Sometimes, when there were extra lots of ready-made clothes to be produced, they were kept till seven or even eight o'clock. But for this extra work there was a small extra pay, so that few of them really minded. But Connie dreaded extra hours extremely. She was not really dependent on the work, although Peter would have been very angry with his girl had she idled her time. She herself, too, preferred doing this to doing nothing. But to-night, of all nights, she was most impatient to get away with Agnes in order to discover what that fascinating young person's secret was.
She looked impatiently at the clock; so much so that Agnes herself, as she watched her eyes, chuckled now and then.
”She'll be an easy prey,” thought Agnes Coppenger. ”I'll soon get 'er into my power.”
At six o'clock there was no further delay; no extra work was required, and the machinists poured into the sloppy, dark, and dreary streets.
”Come along now, quickly,” said Agnes. ”Don't wait for Sue; Sue has nothing to do with you from this time out.”
”Oh dear! oh dear!” said Connie. ”But I don't want to give up Sue and Giles. You ha' never seen little Giles Mason?”
”No,” replied Agnes, ”and don't want to. Wot be Giles to me?”
”Oh,” said Connie, ”ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. He's the wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with 'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?”
”I fond o' poetry?” almost screamed Agnes. ”Not I! That is, I never heerd it--don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry.
I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart 'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing about it. But you, now--you never think on yer clothes.”
”Oh yes, but I do,” said Connie; ”and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the p.a.w.nshop.”
”Lor', now, did he?” said Agnes. ”Wot sort be it, Connie?”
”Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish.”
”You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress,” said Agnes. ”You've the face of a lydy--that any one can see.”
”Have I?” said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her smooth little cheeks.
”Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. Now, look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?”
”'Tain't likely,” replied Connie; ”'e seldom comes in until it's time for 'im to go to bed.”
”Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below stairs.”
This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas and looked around her.
The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond.
Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new costume which her father had given her.
She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to match, and--little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of life--she ran quickly downstairs.
A young man of the name of Anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was pa.s.sing by. He belonged to the Fire Brigade, and was one of the best and bravest firemen in London. He had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and a very kind face. It looked almost as refined as Connie's own.
Anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. He felt half-inclined to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute Agnes gripped her arm.
”My word, ain't you fine!” said that young lady. ”You _be_ a gel to be proud of! Won't yer do fine, jest! Now then, come along, and let's be quick.”