Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/36

sketchy and bad, his short sleeps were cursed with nightmares of boots—miles and miles of boots all in need of blacking, and to be finished before 7 a.m. Or, if he fell asleep in the daytime (and such sleep was bound to be brief and broken) it was of dish-washing he dreamed, and that was as bad.

Which smell he hated worse, blacking or grease, he never knew; but it was as if he had been blacking boots and washing dishes all his thousand-year-long life—as if he could never hope to get away from boots and plates. At first wild thoughts of running away from it all used to cross his mind, but hunger-fear tied him; that homeless fortnight was vivid still.

It was not wonderful that towards the end of Tony’s three weeks at the Hôtel Lafayette his work was often badly done. When Walter Robertson rose one morning and gathered in his boots he found that they were merely smeared—the poorest apology for cleaning. It annoyed him considerably; he had received worrying letters by the early post that morning, and he was in no pleasant mood. This was the last straw. Looking down the passage, he caught sight of a small boot-laden figure stooping at door after door.

“Hi, you!” he called.

The figure laid its complicated burden down and came towards him, dragging its feet. Its slowness aggravated Robertson. He spoke his mind roughly but explicitly, setting out his views on slackness and neglect, and ending with a threat of telling the manager. It was not like Robertson to use his heaviest guns on a small boy, but that morning he needed someone on whom to vent his annoyance; any excuse would have served him.

“What’ve you got to say for yourself?” he ended.

“Give me back the boots.” Tony’s voice was quite dull.