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aged him to think that, if things became unendurable, he
had at all events a way out.
‘Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on
the left and straight through. Mr. Philips, forward please.’
Once a month, for a week, Philip was ‘on duty.’ He had
to go to the department at seven in the morning and keep
an eye on the sweepers. When they finished he had to take
the sheets off the cases and the models. Then, in the evening
when the assistants left, he had to put back the sheets on the
models and the cases and ‘gang’ the sweepers again. It was
a dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or
smoke, but just had to walk about, and the time hung heav-
ily on his hands. When he went off at half past nine he had
supper given him, and this was the only consolation; for tea
at five o’clock had left him with a healthy appetite, and the
bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm pro-
vided, were welcome.
One day when Philip had been at Lynn’s for three months,
Mr. Sampson, the buyer, came into the department, fuming
with anger. The manager, happening to notice the costume
window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and made sa-
tirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit
in silence to his superior’s sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out
of the assistants; and he rated the wretched fellow whose
duty it was to dress the window.
‘If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself,’
Mr. Sampson stormed. ‘I’ve always said it and I always shall.
One can’t leave anything to you chaps. Intelligent you call
yourselves, do you? Intelligent!’