the gate, mounted his
bicycle and rode away.

No one saw him go.

For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises
made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy's
trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the
occasional moving of a pair of steps.

No one dared to speak.

At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty.

He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.

He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he
looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room.
Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his
attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he
pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over
his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the
while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had
departed. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate
that he did not know.

Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the
banisters, listening breathlessly. 'Was it gorn or not?' he wondered.

He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right,
the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. 'Do you
think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's
door.

'I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone.

Philpot wondered. He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for
Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he
was gone or not.

At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more cement.
Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in
which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing
again.

'Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice.

'No,' replied Owen. 'I'm not using it.'

'Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything I
can bring up for you?'

'No, thanks,' replied Owen.

Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized
as a paint-shop. Crass was there mixing some colour.

'I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some.

'Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass.

'I don't know,' replied Philpot. 'Where's his bike?'

''E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied
Crass.

'Tell you what,' whis