trembling shoulders and stifle the evil jeering laugh that was welling up in him. But he remained suavely grave and non-committal to the end, and when Eugene asked him if he should come again to try it on, he said, in the same oily tone, never looking at him:
“Um. Shouldn’t think that would be necessary. Could have it delivered to you when it’s ready. What is your address?”
“The Far End Farm—it’s on the Ventnor Road.”
“Oh! Coulson’s!” He never altered his expression, but the suggestion of the obscene smile was so pronounced that now it seemed he would have to come out with it. Instead, he only said:
“Um. Yes. Should think it could be delivered to you there on Tuesday. If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll ask the tailor.”
Gravely, suavely, he took the coat from Eugene and walked back towards the tailor’s room with the coat across his arm. In a moment, the boy heard sly voices whispering, laughing slyly, then the tailor saying:
“Where does he live?”
“Coulson’s!” said the fitter chokingly, and now the foul awaited laugh did come—high, wet, slimy, it came out of that loose mouth, and choked and whispered wordlessly, and choked again, and mingled then with the tailor’s voice in sly, choking, whispering intimacy, and then gasped faintly and was silent. When the man came out again his coarse face was red and swollen with foul secret merriment, his heavy shoulders trembled slightly, he took out his handkerchief and wiped it once across his loose half-opened mouth, and with that gesture wiped the slime of laughter from his lips. Then he came toward Eugene, suave, grave, and courteous, evilly composed, as he said smoothly:
“Should think we’ll have that for you by next Tuesday, sir.”
“Can the tailor fix it so it’s going to fit?”
“Um. Should think you’ll find that everything’s all right. You ought to have it Tuesday afternoon.”
He was not looking at Eugene: the yellowish bulging eyes were staring casually, indefinitely, away, and his words again had slid away from the boy like oil. He could not be touched, approached, or handled: there was nothing to hold him by, he had the impregnability of smoke or a ball of mercury.
As Eugene went out of the door the tailor began to speak to someone in the shop, Eugene heard low words and whispered voices, then, gasping, the word “Coulson’s!” and the slimy, choking, smothered laughter as the
