The Story of Antony Grace. Fenn George Manville

forty-seven – who’s got folio forty-seven?” he said aloud.

      “Here!” cried a voice close by.

      “Make even. – Get out; don’t bother me.”

      I shrank away, confused and perplexed, and a dark, curly-haired man on the other side turned upon me a pair of deeply set stern eyes, as he rattled some little square pieces of lead into something he held in his hand.

      “What is it, boy?” he said in a deep, low voice.

      “Can you direct me to the overseer’s office, sir?”

      “That’s it, boy, where that gentleman in spectacles is talking.”

      “Wigging old Morgan,” said another man, laughing.

      “Ah!” said the first speaker, “that’s the place, boy;” and he turned his eyes upon a slip of paper in front of his desk.

      I said, “Thank you!” and went on along the passage between two rows of the frame desks to where the fierce-looking bald man was still gesticulating, and as I drew near I could hear what he said.