| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 93 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
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. |
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