Being sick is one of the most disagreeable of the minor human afflictions; a weakening, undignified experience which makes the eyes swim and the legs shake, and in the midst of Francis’s second spasm, a bell from a hidden church sweetly said eleven. ‘Hell!’ muttered Francis; and a voice just behind him enquired in a hoarse, sympathetic yet ironical tone: ‘Feelin’ bad, are yer, cock?’

Francis nodded, making no attempt to turn round. He got out his handkerchief and mopped himself.

‘Ar … it’s all this mornin’ coffee, that’s wot it is,’ said the voice impersonally, as though passing judgment from some superior planet. ‘Fillin’ yer stomach up with milk and dish-water in the middle of the mornin’ – what can yer expect?’

Feeling slightly better, and desperately anxious to be on his way, Francis turned round, jerking down his sleeves, and straightening his tie.

‘Upsets yer, don’t it?’ said the owner of the voice, a fat little old man, who was sitting on an empty cask. His tone expressed some satisfaction. He was holding the early racing edition of The Star, and looked as though he had been sitting on the cask all his life. Yet he had not been there when Francis had come into the yard. He must have come rushing out from some lair, trundling his cask, while Francis was being sick, with the intention of creating a sensation when the boy should turn round. He looked the sort of old man whom nothing – not the Taj Mahal, nor a charge of cavalry nor Helen of Troy nor a Cup Final – could impress. ‘Ar …’ he would say; and wonders would wilt before the sound.

‘Yes,’ said Francis, too polite to ignore him, but rather nettled by his manner. He was just striding off when the old man said mildly, ‘You ain’t got no right ’ere, y’know, cock.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see a notice,’ said Francis, over his shoulder.

‘There ain’t no notice. I’m ’ere to warn people off, see?’

‘Then why didn’t you stop me at the gate?’ snapped Francis.

‘’Cos I muss ’ave a bit of lunch, I s’pose, mussn’ I?’ suddenly shrieked the old man, going crimson in the face. ‘Oo d’you think you are – comin’ ’ere sickin’ coffee all over my yard and grudgin’ me a bit of lunch? Be off, or I’ll set the dog on yer.’

Francis did not find out if there really was a dog because he had begun to run. It was not fear of the dog; it was fear of being seriously late for his appointment.

Fortunately Mr Graby was at a directors’ meeting when he was shown into the office. He had wasted another seven minutes looking for Graby & Bryant’s and finally found it right at the end of the alley; it was on the left, and looked over the river.

It was a quarter past eleven when he walked into Mr Graby’s room and at first he feared that Mr Graby had rushed away in a fury because he was late.