“No; I wish for any place where my education can be of use. I can read and write; I know Latin and French; I can draw; I know arithmetic and summing.”
“Very well; very genteel young man—prepossessing appearance (that’s a fudge!), highly educated; usher in a school, eh?”
“What you like.”
“References?”
“I have none.”
“Eh!—none?” and Mr. Clump fixed his spectacles full upon Philip.
Philip was prepared for the question, and had the sense to perceive that a frank reply was his best policy. “The fact is,” said he boldly, “I was well brought up; my father died; I was to be bound apprentice to a trade I disliked; I left it, and have now no friends.”
“If I can help you, I will,” said Mr. Clump, coldly. “Can’t promise much. If you were a labourer, character might not matter; but educated young men must have a character. Hands always more useful than head. Education no avail nowadays; common, quite common. Call again on Monday.”
Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned from the bureau; but he had a strong confidence in his own resources, and recovered his spirits as he mingled with the throng. He passed, at length, by a livery-stable, and paused, from old associations, as he saw a groom in the mews attempting to manage a young, hot horse, evidently unbroken. The master of the stables, in a green short jacket and top-boots, with a long whip in his hand, was standing by, with one or two men who looked like horsedealers.
“Come off, clumsy! you can’t manage that I ‘ere fine hanimal,” cried the liveryman. “Ah! he’s a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly. But I has not a man in the yard as can ride since Will died. Come off, I say, lubber!”