He took
his coffee cup clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leant back
in his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "I'll
do it," he said aloud.
"Do what?" said Jessie, looking up in surprise over the coffee
pot. She was just beginning her scrambled egg.
"Own up."
"Own what?"
"Miss Milton-- I'm a liar." He put his head on one side and
regarded her with a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in
measured accents, and moving his head slowly from side to side,
he announced, "Ay'm a deraper."
"You're a draper? I thought--"
"You thought wrong. But it's bound to come up. Pins, attitude,
habits--It's plain enough.
"I'm a draper's assistant let out for a ten-days holiday. Jest a
draper's assistant. Not much, is it? A counter-jumper."
"A draper's assistant isn't a position to be ashamed of," she
said, recovering, and not quite understanding yet what this all
meant.
"Yes, it is," he said, "for a man, in this country now. To be
just another man's hand, as I am. To have to wear what clothes
you are told, and go to church to please customers, and
work--There's no other kind of men stand such hours. A drunken
bricklayer's a king to it."
"But why are you telling me this now?"
"It's important you should know at once."
"But, Mr. Benson--"
"That isn't all. If you don't mind my speaking about myself a
bit, there's a few things I'd like to tell you. I can't go on
deceiving you. My name's not Benson. WHY I told you Benson, I
DON'T know.
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