father meekly lathering chins in the parlour of his shop.
Robert went on talking to Swee as though nothing had happened to disturb him. As Swee branched off along Freehold Street he said:
“Tell your dad I’ll be down four o’clock as usual.”
But the moment Swee was gone Robert’s face relapsed into its former bitterness. His features seemed to contract, to tighten upon the bone. In silence he tramped along with David until they reached half-way up Cowpen Street. Then he paused. Opposite was Middlerig, the back yard of the old cow-stalls, a filthy place, an eyesore to the town, rank with rotting straw, ordure and an enormous dung-heap. He faced David.
“What did he gie ye, son?” he asked quietly.
“He gave me two shillings, dad.” And David exposed the florin which he still kept, from shame, gripped tightly, secretly in his palm.
Robert took the coin, looked at it, silently, then flung it from him with a savage force.
“There,” he said, as though the word hurt him. “
There!
”
The florin pitched right into the centre of the dung-heap.
ELEVEN
The night, the great night of the Millington Social arrived. Millington’s, situated at the dead end of a lane off Platt Street, employed about two hundred men and, though small, was not without impressiveness, especially if viewed on a dull March afternoon. From the chimneys of the furnaces, in which the iron was melted, tongues of red flame and dense clouds of smoke belched upwards. The drab sky, illuminatedby the white-hot stream of molten metal flowing from the cupolas to the ladles, seemed to burn with a brassy glare. Pungent fumes rising from the foundry floor as the liquid iron poured into the moulds assailed the nostrils. The ears were stung by the heavy thud of hammers, the ringing of the fettlers’ chisels as they dressed the iron castings, the whirring of driving belts and gear wheels, the piercing scream of the lathes and the milling machines, the burr of the saws as they gnawed into metal. And through the haze emerging from the open doors the eye picked up the dim figures of men, stripped to the waist because of the tremendous heat.
The chief product of the foundry was colliery equipment—iron tubs, haulage gear, roofing bars and heavy forged shackle-bolts, but competition was keen in this market, and Millington’s kept going more through their conservative connection with old-established firms than through enterprise. Millington’s was itself an old-established firm. Millington’s had tradition. And part of that tradition was the Social Club.
Millington’s Social Club, founded in the ’seventies by the Grand Old Man—Wesley Millington, catered in the most benevolent manner for the Workman and the Workman’s Family. The Club had four sections: Literary, Rambling, Photography—Dark Room included—and Athletic. But the scintillating event in the Social Club’s calendar was the Dance, known from time immemorial as the Social, and held, invariably, in the Oddfellows’ Hall.
To-night, Friday, March 23rd, was the actual night of gaiety and gladness; yet Joe went home from his work at the foundry in a crush of sombre meditation. Naturally Joe was going to the Social, he was already a prime favourite in the Club, a rising member in the boxing section, likely candidate for the novices’ billiards handicap. Joe had done pretty well in these last eight months, filled out substantially, put more muscle on his shoulders and, in his own phrase, made a deuce of a lot of pals. He was a grand mixer, Joe, a hearty slapper on the back, with a resonant: “How
do
, ole man!” a ready laugh—a fine manly laugh—a firm handshake and he was, oh, such a lovely teller of a smutty story. Everybody at the works, from Porterfield, the foreman, to Mr. Stanley Millington himself, everyone who really mattered, seemed to take to Joe; at least everyone but Jenny.
Jenny! Joe thought of her as he tramped over the High Level Bridge, reviewing the situation with a
Robert went on talking to Swee as though nothing had happened to disturb him. As Swee branched off along Freehold Street he said:
“Tell your dad I’ll be down four o’clock as usual.”
But the moment Swee was gone Robert’s face relapsed into its former bitterness. His features seemed to contract, to tighten upon the bone. In silence he tramped along with David until they reached half-way up Cowpen Street. Then he paused. Opposite was Middlerig, the back yard of the old cow-stalls, a filthy place, an eyesore to the town, rank with rotting straw, ordure and an enormous dung-heap. He faced David.
“What did he gie ye, son?” he asked quietly.
“He gave me two shillings, dad.” And David exposed the florin which he still kept, from shame, gripped tightly, secretly in his palm.
Robert took the coin, looked at it, silently, then flung it from him with a savage force.
“There,” he said, as though the word hurt him. “
There!
”
The florin pitched right into the centre of the dung-heap.
ELEVEN
The night, the great night of the Millington Social arrived. Millington’s, situated at the dead end of a lane off Platt Street, employed about two hundred men and, though small, was not without impressiveness, especially if viewed on a dull March afternoon. From the chimneys of the furnaces, in which the iron was melted, tongues of red flame and dense clouds of smoke belched upwards. The drab sky, illuminatedby the white-hot stream of molten metal flowing from the cupolas to the ladles, seemed to burn with a brassy glare. Pungent fumes rising from the foundry floor as the liquid iron poured into the moulds assailed the nostrils. The ears were stung by the heavy thud of hammers, the ringing of the fettlers’ chisels as they dressed the iron castings, the whirring of driving belts and gear wheels, the piercing scream of the lathes and the milling machines, the burr of the saws as they gnawed into metal. And through the haze emerging from the open doors the eye picked up the dim figures of men, stripped to the waist because of the tremendous heat.
The chief product of the foundry was colliery equipment—iron tubs, haulage gear, roofing bars and heavy forged shackle-bolts, but competition was keen in this market, and Millington’s kept going more through their conservative connection with old-established firms than through enterprise. Millington’s was itself an old-established firm. Millington’s had tradition. And part of that tradition was the Social Club.
Millington’s Social Club, founded in the ’seventies by the Grand Old Man—Wesley Millington, catered in the most benevolent manner for the Workman and the Workman’s Family. The Club had four sections: Literary, Rambling, Photography—Dark Room included—and Athletic. But the scintillating event in the Social Club’s calendar was the Dance, known from time immemorial as the Social, and held, invariably, in the Oddfellows’ Hall.
To-night, Friday, March 23rd, was the actual night of gaiety and gladness; yet Joe went home from his work at the foundry in a crush of sombre meditation. Naturally Joe was going to the Social, he was already a prime favourite in the Club, a rising member in the boxing section, likely candidate for the novices’ billiards handicap. Joe had done pretty well in these last eight months, filled out substantially, put more muscle on his shoulders and, in his own phrase, made a deuce of a lot of pals. He was a grand mixer, Joe, a hearty slapper on the back, with a resonant: “How
do
, ole man!” a ready laugh—a fine manly laugh—a firm handshake and he was, oh, such a lovely teller of a smutty story. Everybody at the works, from Porterfield, the foreman, to Mr. Stanley Millington himself, everyone who really mattered, seemed to take to Joe; at least everyone but Jenny.
Jenny! Joe thought of her as he tramped over the High Level Bridge, reviewing the situation with a
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