Free The Rise of Henry Morcar by Phyllis Bentley

his speech was so broadly Yorkshire, but after a time his ear adjusted itself, and he began the long slow process of learning his trade. He was allowed to lift the huge iron weights, to feel the cloth, to discuss its design, texture and destination; presently he was allowed to try the sewing-machine. His first attempt with this was not very successful and he was standing with his hands behind his back watching his companion manipulate the machine slowly so that he might see where he had erred when a distant bustle arose which grew louder and nearer, and presently Mr. Shaw rushed in. The effect was that of a whirlwind; the men’s slow sure actions were galvanised to a feverish tempo; tickets fluttered in the air, pieces of brown paper fell to the ground, tempers rose; two of the men were sent off on errands and left with hurried steps; Mr. Shaw seemed to examine every piece in the place and be dissatisfied with its appearance or its progress. Eventually his tour of the room brought him back to Morcar.
    â€œYou’ll have to do more than stand about with your hands behind your back if you’re to stay at Prospect, Morcar,” he cried hastily. “We’ve no room for do-nothings. We’ve no Councillors here.”
    The men all looked round with interest, and one sniggered slightly. Harry’s face burned.
    â€œI were just learning him the sewing, Mester Shaw,” said Booth in a vexed defensive tone.
    â€œWork, honest work!” exclaimed Mr. Shaw, vanishing into the office.
    As he had not set Harry any other task, the boy remained with Booth, in whose goodwill he found no diminution. But Morcar now felt guilty and unhappy. To be called a do-nothing! And what had Mr. Shaw meant about no Councillors? He had just reached the point of asking himself whether Mr. Shaw could possibly have meant something insulting about his father when his employer stuck his head into the room and called to Booth that the Inspector was at the door, he’d best go help him.
    â€œAnd you, Morcar,” he added on a savage note, frowning: “Make yourself useful—if you can.”
    Booth accordingly crossed the office and clattered down the steps, Morcar at his heels. At the door stood a flat horse-drawn cart, from which two men were throwing back a waterproof cover, revealing a couple of heavy wooden boxes and some fifty-six-pound iron bar weights of the kind Morcar had seen for the first time that morning.
    â€œGive us a hand with this lot,” invited one of the men.
    Booth and Morcar took a box between them and staggered up the stairs. Morcar would have descended to help with the iron weights, but was prevented by his companion.
    â€œHe’s not got all his strength yet, you see,” explained Booth to the Inspector. “One o’ them weights would pull his inside out.”
    â€œQuite right,” agreed the Inspector, unhooking the largest box.
    A complicated arrangement of wood and gleaming brass was revealed, nestling in faded velvet. The fascinated Morcar watched this become a wooden tripod secured by links of brass; then the stirrup and beam were placed in position, and the two flat round brass weight-pans allowed to dangle from their thick brass chains. The assistant threw back the lids of other coffers, revealing a smaller beam and a set of spherical brass weights, so gleaming and polished that they seemed made of gold.
    â€œBring out your weights,” said the Inspector cheerfully, taking a printed record book from his pocket and licking a thumb to turn its long narrow leaves. “Let’s see now; what had you last time? Here we are.” He secured the page by an elastic band and laid a well-pointed pencil beside it on the table.
    Aided by his assistant, he checked the mill weighing-machine, which proved to be accurate, and then began to test the Shaws’ bar weights against the standards, on the official beam. Seeing Morcar’s interest in these novel proceedings,