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eople who turn away and then suddenly dart back at you； like a dragon…fly。
‘course you couldn’t count it！ doesn’t matter to you if we’re two bob out。 doesn’t matter at all。 what’s two bob to you？ couldn’t ask you to go to the trouble of counting it properly。 ho； no！ nothing matters ‘ere ‘cept your convenience。 you don’t think about others； do you？’
this went on for about five minutes in a voice you could hear half across the shop。 he kept turning away to make her think he’d finished with her and then darting back to have another go。 as i edged a bit farther off i had a glance at them。 the girl was a kid about eighteen； rather fat； with a sort of moony face； the kind that would never get the change right anyway。 she’d turned pale pink and she was wriggling； actually wriggling with pain。 it was just the same as if he’d been cutting into her with a whip。 the girls at the other counters were pretending not to hear。 he was an ugly； stiff…built little devil； the sort of cock…sparrow type of man that sticks his chest out and puts his hands under his coattails—the type that’d be a sergeant…major only they aren’t tall enough。 do you notice how often they have under…sized men for these bullying jobs？ he was sticking his face； moustaches and all； almost into hers so as to scream at her better。 and the girl all pink and wriggling。
finally he decided that he’d said enough and strutted off like an admiral on the quarter…deck； and i came up to the counter for my razor…blades。 he knew i’d heard every word； and so did she； and both of them knew i knew they knew。 but the worst of it was that for my benefit she’d got to pretend that nothing had happened and put on the standoffish keep…your…distance attitude that a shopgirl’s supposed to keep up with male customers。 had to act the grown…up young lady half a minute after i’d seen her cursed like a skivvy！ her face was still pink and her hands were trembling。 i asked her for penny blades and she started fumbling in the threepenny tray。 then the little devil of a floor…manager turned our way and for a moment both of us thought he was ing back to begin again。 the girl flinched like a dog that sees the whip。 but she was looking at me out of the corner of her eye。 i could see that because i’d seen her cursed she hated me like the devil。 queer！
i cleared out with my razor…blades。 why do they stand it？ i was thinking。 pure funk； of course。 one back…answer and you get the sack。 it’s the same everywhere。 i thought of the lad that sometimes serves me at the chain…store grocery we deal at。 a great hefty lump of twenty； with cheeks like roses and enormous fore… arms； ought to be working in a blacksmith’s shop。 and there he is in his white jacket； bent double across the counter； rubbing his hands together with his ‘yes； sir！ very true； sir！ pleasant weather for the time of the year； sir！ what can i have the pleasure of getting you today； sir？’ practically asking you to kick his bum。 orders； of course。 the customer is always right。 the thing you can see in his face is mortal dread that you might report him for impertinence and get him sacked。 besides； how’s he to know you aren’t one of the narks the pany sends round？ fear！ we swim in it。 it’s our element。 everyone that isn’t scared stiff of losing his job is scared stiff of war； or fascism； or munism； or something。 jews sweating when they think of hitler。 it crossed my mind that that little bastard with the spiky moustache was probably a damn sight more scared for his job than the girl was。 probably got a family to support。 and perhaps； who knows； at home he’s meek and mild； grows cucumbers in the back garden； lets his wife sit on him and the kids pull his moustache。 and by the same token you never read about a spanish inquisitor or one of these higher…ups in the russian ogpu without being told that in private life he was such a good kind man； best of husbands and fathers； devoted to his tame canary； and so forth。
the girl at the soap counter was looking after me as i went out of the door。 she’d have murdered me if she could。 how she hated me because of what i’d seen！ much more than she hated the floor… manager。
．．
PART Ⅰ…3
生小说＿网
there was a bombing plane flying low overhead。 for a minute or two it seemed to be keeping pace with the train。 two vulgar kind of blokes in shabby overcoats； obviously mercials of the lowest type； newspaper canvassers probably； were sitting opposite me。 one of them was reading the mail and the other was reading the express。 i could see by their manner that they’d spotted me for one of their kind。 up at the other end of the carriage two lawyers’ clerks with black bags were keeping up a conversation full of legal baloney that was meant to impress the rest of us and show that they didn’t belong to the mon herd。
i was watching the backs of the houses sliding past。 the line from west bletchley runs most of the way through slums； but it’s kind of peaceful； the glimpses you get of little backyards with bits of flowers stuck in boxes and the flat roofs where the women peg out the washing and the bird…cage on the wall。 the great black bombing plane swayed a little in the air and zoomed ahead so that i couldn’t see it。 i was sitting with my back to the engine。 one of the mercials cocked his eye at it for just a second。 i knew what he was thinking。 for that matter it’s what everybody else is thinking。 you don’t have to be a highbrow to think such thoughts nowadays。 in two years’ time； one year’s time； what shall we be doing when we see one of those things？ making a dive for the cellar； wetting our bags with fright。
the mercial bloke put down his daily mail。
‘templegate’s winner e in；’ he said。
the lawyers’ clerks were sprouting some learned rot about fee… simple and peppercorns。 the other mercial felt in his waistcoat pocket and took out a bent woodbine。 he felt in the other pocket and then leaned across to me。
‘got a match； tubby？’
i felt for my matches。 ‘tubby’； you notice。 that’s interesting； really。 for about a couple of minutes i stopped thinking about bombs and began thinking about my figure as i’d studied it in my bath that morning。
it’s quite true i’m tubby； in fact my upper half is almost exactly the shape of a tub。 but what’s interesting； i think； is that merely because you happen to be a little bit fat； almost anyone； even a total； stranger； will take it for granted to give you a nickname that’s an insulting ment on your personal appearance。 suppose a chap was a hunchback or had a squint or a hare…lip—would you give him a nickname to remind him of it？ but every fat man’s labelled as a matter of course。 i’m the type that people automatically slap on the back and punch in the ribs； and nearly all of them think i like it。 i never go into the saloon bar of the crown at pudley （i pass that way once a week on business） without that ass waters； who travels for the seafoam soap people but who’s more or less a permanency in the saloon bar of the crown； prodding me in the ribs and singing out ‘here a sheer hulk lies poor tom bowling！’ which is a joke the bloody fools in the bar never get tired of。 waters has got a finger li