The Man Who Bought London Read Free Page B

bitterly, and three sycophantic shop-walkers, immaculately attired in the most perfect fitting of frockcoats, who stood at a respectful distance, said in audible tones that it was really disgraceful.
    They would have laughed at Mr Tack’s comment on the sick mother, but they weren’t sure whether he wanted them to laugh, because Mr Tack was a strict Churchman, and usually regarded sickness as part and parcel of the solemn ritual of life.
    ‘She goes on Saturday week – whatever happens,’ said Mr Tack grimly, and examined his watch. ‘She would go at once if it wasn’t for the fact that I can’t get anybody to take her place at a minute’s notice.’ One of the shop-walkers, feeling by reason of his seniority of service that something was expected from him, remarked that he did not know what things were coming to.
    It was to this unhappy group that Elsie Marion, flushed and a little breathless, came in haste from the stuffy dressing-room which Tack and Brighten’s provided for their female employees.
    ‘I’m so sorry!’ she said, as she opened the glass-panelled door of the cash rostrum and swung herself up to the high stool.
    Mr Tack looked at her. There he stood, as she had predicted, his gold chronometer in his hand, the doom on his face, an oppressive figure.
    ‘Nine o’clock I was here, miss,’ he said.
    She made no reply, opening her desk, and taking out the check pads and the spikes of her craft.
    ‘Nine o’clock I was here, miss,’ repeated the patient Mr Tack – who was far from patient, being, in fact, in a white heat of temper.
    ‘I’m very sorry!’ she repeated.
    A young man had strolled into the store, and since the officials responsible for piloting him to the counter of his desire were at that moment forming an admiring audience about Mr Tack, he was allowed to wander aimlessly. He was a bright boy, in a fawn dustcoat, and his soft felt hat was stuck on the back of his head. He had all the savoir faire and the careless confidence which is associated with one profession in the world – and one only. He drew nearer to the little group, having no false sense of modesty.
    ‘You are sorry!’ said Mr Tack with great restraint. He was a stout little man with a shiny bald head and a heavy, yellow moustache. ‘You are sorry! Well, that’s a comfort! You’ve absolutely set the rules – my rules – at defiance. You have ignored my special request to be here at nine o’clock – and you’re sorry!’
    Still the girl made no reply, but the young man in the soft felt hat was intensely interested.
    ‘If I can get here, Miss Marion, you can get here!’ said Mr Tack.
    ‘I’m very sorry,’ said the girl again. ‘I overslept. As it is, I have come without any breakfast.’
    ‘I could get up in time,’ went on Mr Tack.
    Elsie Marion turned on him, her patience exhausted. This was his way – he would nag from now till she left, and she wanted to see the end of it. She scented dismissal, anyway.
    ‘What do you think I care,’ she asked, stung to wrath, ‘about what time you got up? You’re horribly old compared to me;you eat more than I, and you haven’t my digestion. You get up because you can’t sleep, probably. I sleep because I can’t get up.’
    It was a speech foreign to her nature, but she was stung to resentment.
    Mr Tack was dumbfounded. Here were at least six statements, many of them unthinkably outrageous, which called for reprimand.
    ‘You’re discharged,’ he snorted. The girl slipped down from her stool, very white of face.
    ‘Not now – not now!’ said Mr Tack hastily. ‘You take a week’s notice from Saturday.’
    ‘I’d rather go now,’ she said quietly.
    ‘You’ll stay to suit my convenience,’ breathed Mr Tack, ‘and then you will be discharged without a character.’
    She climbed back to her stool, strangely elated.
    ‘Then you’ve got to stop nagging me,’ she said boldly. ‘I’ll do whatever it is my duty to do, but I won’t be bullied. I