when you try to talk to them? They'll slam the door in your ugly mug, you see if they don't, and it'll serve you right. Take you down a peg or two, my lad. That's what you want. Be superior if that's how you feel, but you're riding for a fall. You can't say I haven't tried to be friendly, but I'm damned if I'm going to put myself out if you don't meet me half way.
He was glad when they reached the school. Now he could show Brant how successfully he had cultivated the headmaster the day before. They crossed the deserted playground and approached the red-brick school building. In spite of his outward show of confidence, George could never enter a school premises without a feeling of guilt. The LCC had forbidden canvassers to call on Secondary and Council schools, and George always had it at the back of his mind that he would run into a visiting school inspector one of these days and he ordered ignominiously from the school.
He paused at the main entrance, and with an uneasy smile pointed out the notice pinned to the door.
'See that?' he said, anxious that Brant should share his own secret uneasiness. ' 'Canvassers and salesmen are not permitted on the school premises ' I told you it wasn't easy, didn't I? It's only when the headmaster's friendly that we can get anywhere.'
Brant didn't say anything. He glanced at George with sneering contempt in his eyes.
George pushed open the door and entered the long passage, which smelt of disinfectant, floor polish and stale perspiration. They walked down the passage, past a number of classrooms. They could see through the glass partitions into the small rooms, each containing a number of children at desks. The children spotted them, and heads turned in their direction with the precision of a field of corn moving in a wind.
George shrank from their inquisitive, staring eyes. He hunched his great shoulders and hurried on towards the headmaster's office.
The headmaster looked up from his desk and frowned at them. He was a little man, thin and old. Two or three strands of greying hair had been carefully plastered across the baldness of his head. His large, mild eyes were tired, and his shoulders, under his shabby coat, drooped as if the burden of his responsibilities were too much for him
'Good afternoon, Mr Pickthorn,' George said, with the overpowering heartiness he always assumed when working. 'What a magnificent day! Too good to be in, but we've all got our living to make, haven't we?' He stood over the headmaster, large, friendly, anxious to please. 'We can't all go gadding about when there's work to be done, can we? Noses to the grindstones, eh?' He lowered his voice and winked. 'Not that you and me wouldn't like to be at Lord's today.'
It had taken George some time to conquer his shyness when meeting strangers, but now that he was sure of what he was going to say, he was becoming quite a fluent, if automatic talker. He hoped that Brant was being impressed. That'd show him how to talk to prospects. Brant would have to shake up his ideas if he thought he was going to make a successful salesman. People liked to have someone call on them who was cheerful and bright.
Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. 'Ali,' he said, shaking his head sadly. 'Yes, Lord's.' Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don't care. At least, they don't look away when I talk to them.
Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, 'I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I'd pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?'
Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. 'No,' he said, without looking at either of them. 'No, I'm afraid they aren't.'
George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.
'Well, never mind,' he said, with a fixed smile. 'You don't have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you'll find time to get them done tomorrow.'
Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. 'I've changed my mind,' he said abruptly. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He's quite right, of course. I wasn't thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I've known the Ch
'You see?' George said, when they were in the street again. 'Now we've got no calls for tonight. The rotten little rat! Couldn't do enough for me yesterday. I spent a whole hour listening to him talk about his blasted garden. As if I cared! He promised me faithfully to distribute those forms. Oh, well, it only goes to prove.' He fished out his carton of cigarettes and lit one. 'We'll have to do a cold canvass tonight. It means wandering up and down a street looking out for kids, asking them where they live, or spotting toys in the windows or gardens. That's a job I hate! Everyone watches you, and sometimes if you do ask the kids who they are, they get scared and start howling.'
Brant shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. His indifferent expression infuriated George
'Well, what do we do?' Brant asked, as if to say, this is your mess, and it's up to you to find a way out.
Choking back his irritation, George took out his list of schools and studied it. 'We'd better go over to Sherman Road school,' he said. 'It's about half a mile from here. That's the best school in the district. If we don't get our forms in there, we're properly in the soup.'
Brant shrugged. 'All right,' he said, falling in step beside George. 'So long as we get something done today.'
George shot him an angry glance. 'It's all very well to criticize,' he snapped, 'but if you think you can do better, you'd better try.'
'I'll take over if you make another mess of it,' Brant returned in his clipped, indifferent voice.
George could scarcely believe his ears. He walked on in silence, fuming with rage. If he made a mess of it! Of all the cheek! And he was teaching this smug brat—that's all he was—a smug brat! He'd take over, would he? All right, they'd see about that. Perhaps it'd be a good idea to let him make a fool of himself. As if anyone would listen to him, with his scar and his straw hair and his shabby clothes. Then George's caution asserted itself. The kids at
