Midnight is a Place Read Free Page B

back in the direction of his office.
    "Oh"—the tutor's voice was low and dry: he spoke hurriedly—"I suppose her child may have been injured by the great press—she was one of the fluff-pickers, maybe; it does happen from time to time, I have heard—"
    He entered the office. Lucas remained outside, looking toward the gateway, which was empty now. He remembered the words of Bob the groom: "Nineteen or twenty a year, regular—specially fluff-pickers—even more than falls into the soap-plodders at Lathers and Smothers—"
    Inside the office he heard his tutor saying, "Mr. Smallside? Good evening. I believe Sir Randolph has already sent word. I come from the Court; I have brought down young Master Lucas Bell, as arranged, to be shown the works."
    Mr. Smallside's manner changed completely. He had been looking irritably at the visitors as if he had little time for them. Now he smiled, and the brisk, matter-of-fact tone he had used with Mrs. Braithwaite was replaced by obsequious, hand-rubbing civility, as he came out into the yard.
    "Young Master Bell? Yes, indeed, yes,
indeed.
Sir Randolph did graciously think to mention it. He sent a note. Delighted to meet you, Master Bell, delighted indeed! What a pleasure, what a pleasure! How well I remember your dear father, at least I almost remember him, for in fact he left to look after our Indian supply office just the year before I became manager here, but I've heard his name spoken so often that it's much the same. Such a sad loss when he passed away. And so you're his son—young Master Bell! Well, well, well, young Master Bell, what can we do for you?"
    "I—I don't exactly know," stammered Lucas, quite taken aback by all this politeness, so extremely different from his usual treatment. In spite of it—or even because of it—he was not sure that he liked Mr. Smallside, who was a lean, pallid man with a bidding head and a face the color and shape of a bar of carpet soap. His hand, also, with which he grasped that of Lucas and shook it up and down very many times, had a kind of damp soapy feel to it. Lucas withdrew his own as soon as possible, and, when he could manage it without being observed, rubbed his palm vigorously against the skirts of his rough frieze jacket.
    "Now," said Mr. Smallside, leading them into his office, which was a kind of little hut in the middle of the yard, cramped, hot, piled high with dusty papers and lit by hissing gas globes. "Now, what can we offer young Master Bell? A bit of parkin? A drop of prune wine? A caraway biscuit? Young gentlemen usually have a sweet tooth, I know!"
    "Nothing, thank you," Mr. Oakapple replied for Lucas. His tone was brusque. "I think we should commence our tour straight away. The boy still has his schoolwork to do as well."
    "Dear, dear, dear!" Mr. Smallside shook his head sorrowfully. "Don't stretch the young shoot too far, though, Mr. Oakapple? All work and no play won't make the best hay, we used to say when I was a young lad—" Putting his head on one side, he smiled at Lucas so much that the smile seemed likely to run round and meet at the back of his head. Lucas felt more than ever that he could not possibly be at ease in the company of Mr. Smallside and hoped that they would not have his escort while they went over the Mill.
    He soon discovered that he need have had no anxieties on that score. It was suddenly plain that Mr. Smallside felt he had kept his smile on long enough; it dropped from his face like melted butter, and he went to the door of his hut and bawled across the yard towards a group of men engaged in unloading a truck: "Scatcherd! Scatcherd! Where are you? Hey, one of you trimmers—Barth, Stewkley, Danby, Bloggs—send Scatcherd to me directly. Make haste there!"
    His tone was quite different again—bullying, loud, sharp, as if he enjoyed showing off his power.
    A man left the rest and ran across the yard.
    "There you are then," Mr. Smallside addressed