lamely. "I—I was just going to bed."
Brant eyed him contemptuously. Then he looked at Gladys and snapped his fingers impatiently.
"A lemonade," he said, and then turned hack to George. "What was your racket?" he asked.
George blinked. "Racket? What racket?"
"You said you worked with Frank Kelly. What did you do?"
George's brain crawled with alarm. This would never do, he told himself, flustered. He wasn't going to admit anything to Brant. It was all very well to tell Ella tall stories, but Brant was quite a different kettle of fish.
"That's my business," he said, looking away. "I don't talk about it."
"Don't be wet," Brant said. "I'm in the game myself."
George was startled: he turned and stared into Brant's hard, grey-blue eyes. He flinched away from what he saw in them.
"What game?" he repeated.
Brant smiled. "I don't talk about that either," he said. "Do you think I'd mess about touting books unless I had to? Would you?"
George had no idea what he was driving at. He said nothing.
"As soon as it's cooled off I'm going hack to my racket," Brant said, and he touched the raw, livid scar, his eyes clouding and his face set in grim lines.
So Gladys was right. He was a wrong 'un, George thought, and, somehow, he felt envious. He knew he shouldn't feel like that, but he had always longed to live dangerously.
For something to say, George blurted out, "That's a nasty scar you've got there. Is it recent?"
An extraordinary change came over Brant's face. It seemed to grow dark and thin. It twisted out of shape so that it was moulded into a mask of terrifying hatred.
He leaned forward and spat on the floor.
"Come on," he said, speaking through stiff white lips. "We're going to see Robinson."
"Not tonight," George returned hastily. "It's raining.
Besides, it's too late now. We'll see him tomorrow morning." With an obvious effort Brant controlled himself. Once more his face became blank and indifferent.
"Do you keep a record of the orders you've taken?" he asked.
"Why, yes," George returned, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.
"Got it with you?"
George produced a tattered notebook, and Brant took it from him He examined the pages covered with George's neat writing and then he glanced up.
"This the lot? I mean from the time you started?" George nodded blankly
"Robinson owes you thirty quid. Do you realize that?"
"As much as that?" George was doubtful. "Well, it can't be helped. I shan't get it from him He never has any money."
"We'll see about that," Brant said, slipping the notebook into his pocket. He finished his lemonade with a grimace, put a shilling on the counter and turned to the door. "Come on," he went on impatiently.
"It's no good tonight," George protested feebly. As he spoke the bar hand began to call, "Time, gents. Time if you please."
He followed Brant out, avoiding Gladys' eyes. It was dark in the street and rain fell heavily.
"I'm going home," he said, water dripping off his long nose. "We'll see Robo tomorrow."
"Come on," Brant said, jerking his words out as if they burned his mouth. "We're going to see him tonight."
"But I don't know where he lives," George returned.
"Let's be sensible. We're both getting soaked."
Brant said an ugly word and walked on.
George went with him. He felt there was nothing else to do. Brant seemed to know where to go. He turned down a side street, lined with small, two-storey houses, and after a few minutes he stopped.
"That's it," he said, looking up at one of the houses. "He's got a room there." He pointed to a window on the top floor. Although the blind was drawn, they could see a light was still burning. "Come on," Brant went on, walking up the worn steps. He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
George stood at his side, feeling the rain against his face and his heart pounding uneasily.
There was a shuffling sound beyond the door, and a moment later a fat old woman peered inquisitively at
Brant eyed him contemptuously. Then he looked at Gladys and snapped his fingers impatiently.
"A lemonade," he said, and then turned hack to George. "What was your racket?" he asked.
George blinked. "Racket? What racket?"
"You said you worked with Frank Kelly. What did you do?"
George's brain crawled with alarm. This would never do, he told himself, flustered. He wasn't going to admit anything to Brant. It was all very well to tell Ella tall stories, but Brant was quite a different kettle of fish.
"That's my business," he said, looking away. "I don't talk about it."
"Don't be wet," Brant said. "I'm in the game myself."
George was startled: he turned and stared into Brant's hard, grey-blue eyes. He flinched away from what he saw in them.
"What game?" he repeated.
Brant smiled. "I don't talk about that either," he said. "Do you think I'd mess about touting books unless I had to? Would you?"
George had no idea what he was driving at. He said nothing.
"As soon as it's cooled off I'm going hack to my racket," Brant said, and he touched the raw, livid scar, his eyes clouding and his face set in grim lines.
So Gladys was right. He was a wrong 'un, George thought, and, somehow, he felt envious. He knew he shouldn't feel like that, but he had always longed to live dangerously.
For something to say, George blurted out, "That's a nasty scar you've got there. Is it recent?"
An extraordinary change came over Brant's face. It seemed to grow dark and thin. It twisted out of shape so that it was moulded into a mask of terrifying hatred.
He leaned forward and spat on the floor.
"Come on," he said, speaking through stiff white lips. "We're going to see Robinson."
"Not tonight," George returned hastily. "It's raining.
Besides, it's too late now. We'll see him tomorrow morning." With an obvious effort Brant controlled himself. Once more his face became blank and indifferent.
"Do you keep a record of the orders you've taken?" he asked.
"Why, yes," George returned, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.
"Got it with you?"
George produced a tattered notebook, and Brant took it from him He examined the pages covered with George's neat writing and then he glanced up.
"This the lot? I mean from the time you started?" George nodded blankly
"Robinson owes you thirty quid. Do you realize that?"
"As much as that?" George was doubtful. "Well, it can't be helped. I shan't get it from him He never has any money."
"We'll see about that," Brant said, slipping the notebook into his pocket. He finished his lemonade with a grimace, put a shilling on the counter and turned to the door. "Come on," he went on impatiently.
"It's no good tonight," George protested feebly. As he spoke the bar hand began to call, "Time, gents. Time if you please."
He followed Brant out, avoiding Gladys' eyes. It was dark in the street and rain fell heavily.
"I'm going home," he said, water dripping off his long nose. "We'll see Robo tomorrow."
"Come on," Brant said, jerking his words out as if they burned his mouth. "We're going to see him tonight."
"But I don't know where he lives," George returned.
"Let's be sensible. We're both getting soaked."
Brant said an ugly word and walked on.
George went with him. He felt there was nothing else to do. Brant seemed to know where to go. He turned down a side street, lined with small, two-storey houses, and after a few minutes he stopped.
"That's it," he said, looking up at one of the houses. "He's got a room there." He pointed to a window on the top floor. Although the blind was drawn, they could see a light was still burning. "Come on," Brant went on, walking up the worn steps. He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
George stood at his side, feeling the rain against his face and his heart pounding uneasily.
There was a shuffling sound beyond the door, and a moment later a fat old woman peered inquisitively at
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