"That's their business, not mine."

"It looks like 'their' mistake, whoever they are. Where's the letter?"

"I've mislaid it. That's not my business either. My business is to
send you off before they find out their mistake. You can catch the
eleven express from Waterloo if you look sharp."

Sharp? Never had he looked less so. Still, with his aching head he
dimly perceived that his Easter was being tampered with.

"And supposing they want me to stay?"

"Stay then. The longer the better."

"I'll go after Easter then. I can't go before. I can't possibly.
It's--it's out of the question."

His brain was clear enough on that point. He had suffered many things
from the brutality of Rickman's; but hitherto its dealings had always
been plain and above-board. It had kept him many an evening working
overtime, it had even exacted an occasional Saturday afternoon; but
it had never before swindled him out of a Bank holiday. The thing was
incredible; it could not be. Rickman's had no rights over his Easter;
whatever happened, that holy festival was indubitably, incontestably
his.

"Don't be afraid. You'll get your holiday, my boy, when you come back.
I'll make it worth your while."