“Why, taken—gone. Simpson's got it—ten days ago.”
An icy chill smote my poor George. After the dreadful loss of Runnygate everything had depended upon this appointment with its salary considerably above the average.
“Simpson! Simmy got it!” he shouted. “What the blazes does Simmy mean by taking it? He knew I was after it.”
“My good lad, you never came near the place after you'd qualified. If Simmy hadn't taken it someone else would. Bingham was in a hurry.”
Blankly George stared before him. At length, “I suppose there are several other jobs going?” he asked.
“None on the Dean's list,” said Mr. Franklyn. “I was looking at it last night.”
Beneath this new distress George postponed the burning desire to clasp his Mary in his arms and beg forgiveness. He hurried to hospital; made for the Dean's office. Here disaster was confirmed. Simpson had already taken the Yorkshire place; the Dean had no other posts on his lists. “Only this Runnygate practice,” he said. “I haven't seen you since you qualified. Can you raise the price?”
George, rising and making for the door, could only shake his head. There was something at his throat that forbade speech. Runnygate and all that Runnygate meant—the dear little home, the tight little practice, the tremendous future—was a bitter picture now that it was so utterly lost; now that even this place in Yorkshire was also gone.
He shook his head.
“Great pity!” the Dean told him. “I've kept it for you. Lawrence, the man who's leaving it, is coming to see me at five this evening. I shall have to help him find another purchaser.”