Free The Rise of Henry Morcar by Phyllis Bentley Page B

affably, turning on his heel and leaving the room.
    The mill weights were stamped and the standard weights and beams were repacked rapidly, in silence, and in silence the equipment was carried through the office and down the stairs to the cart. The Inspector, Harry noticed, carried the faulty weight himself; when he had placed it on the cart, he took a label from his pocket and wrote on it
Shaw, Prospect Mills, light
and tied it to the weight’s handle. The cart drove off, the Inspector walking at its side, and Booth and Morcar reentered the mill. Just as Harry approached the doorway between the office and the warehouse, Mr. Shaw came up full tilt; he was talking over his shoulder to one of the men, and not seeing Harry cannoned into him violently.
    â€œSorry!” said Harry cheerfully.
    â€œGet out of my way!” shouted Mr. Shaw, suddenly crimson. “Get out of my way, can’t you! Here I take you on to give you a chance, and you do nothing but make a confounded nuisance of yourself all day. Here, Booth! Take him away and find him something to do, can’t you? For heaven’s sake keep him out of my sight for a while.” He pushed Harry out of the office and banged the door.
    Harry, dumbfounded, stood quite still for a moment, then turned to Booth.
    â€œNever mind—don’t take on—Mester Shaw’s a bit hot-tempered,”said Booth consolingly. “Ah, there’s t’buzzer,” he added with relief, as the shrill wail filled the air. “Are you going home for your dinner?” Harry nodded. “Be off with you then—Mester Shaw’ll have forgotten all about it by th’ afternoon. Best go out t’other way,” he concluded, jerking his head towards the back premises.
    Harry took the hint, and after dejectedly removing the brat, found a side door which led him into the yard. He came out into the street past the red wooden gates, turned into the mill again and had begun lifting out his bicycle when he remembered his cap, which hung in the office. “I could leave it till this afternoon,” he thought. But he did not wish to leave it till the afternoon. Very quietly he approached the office door. To his great joy it stood ajar a few inches. Sliding his hand through the opening with extreme care, he stood on tiptoe, and by extending his arm to its utmost reach managed to finger his cap. But it was too distant; he could not lift it from the peg. After several vain attempts he changed his tactics and gave it a sharp flick upwards; it rose above the peg and fell clear below. With infinite good luck, it seemed to him, he caught it as it fell, and withdrew slowly from the room. The next moment he was safely out of the mill and stooping to adjust his trouser clips by the kerb.
    He felt strongly impelled to go home by way of Irebridge and Hurst Bank.
    â€œIt’s not much further,” he muttered to himself, mounting.
    This was not quite true and he had no idea why he wanted to go by Irebridge, but the impulse was too strong to be denied. He turned to the right along the Ire Valley Road. Presently he saw ahead of him the huge stone block of Syke Mills, with its tall clock tower, its five storeys, its soaring circular chimney, its two hundred yards of main road frontage. Syke Mills were the premises of Oldroyds’, one of the great long-established textile firms of the West Riding. Morcar drew near to the wide archway which led to the interior yard. The iron gates stood open. His front wheel wobbled; he dismounted and propped his bicycle carefully against the kerb. His heart beat thick and fast. He knew now why he had come this way home; he wanted to get a job in Oldroyds’, whose name he remembered particularly from Mr. Shaw’s odd story about cutting a strip from their patterns. He would try Oldroyds’ on his way home, Armitages’ on the way back after dinner. If he couldn’t get into either place, he would try something