There was also a “home” influence at work. When Christian passed out of the narrow doorway, and turned his face westward, his day's work was by no means over, as will be shown hereafter.
As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blotting-pad, he was slowly realising the fact that something must be done. Presently he looked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of his sub-editor.
“Morgan,” he said, “I have been thinking--Seems to me Vellacott wants a rest! He's played out!”
Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his coat, just beneath the shoulder, and sat back in his chair.
“Yes,” he replied; “he has not been up to the mark for some time. But you will find difficulty in making him take a holiday. He is a devil for working--ha, ha!”
This “ha, ha!” did not mean very much. There was no mirth in it. It was a species of punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished his remark.
“I will ring for him now and see what he says about it.”
Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the silent door opened and a voice from without said, “Yess'r.” A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth stood at attention in the doorway.
“No--sir!” In a tone which seemed to ask: “Now _is_ it likely?”
The small boy closed the door. Once outside he placed his hand upon his heart and made a low bow to the handle, retreating backwards to the head of the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the banister, to the trifling detriment of his waistcoat. As he reached the end of his perilous journey a door opened at the foot of the stairs, and a man's form became discernible in the dim light.
“Is that the way you generally come downstairs, Wilson?” asked a voice.
“Not quite; there is one quicker, which you will discover some day if you overbalance at the top!”
“Mr. Bodery wishes to see you, please sir!” The small boy's manner was very different from what it had been outside the door upstairs.
“All right,” replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carrying over his arm. A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all his movements. At school he had been considered a very “clean” fielder. The cleanness was there still.
The preternaturally sharp boy--sharp as only London boys are--watched the lithe form vanish up the stairs; then he wagged his head very wisely and said to himself in a patronising way: