“Hum!—may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?—look at mine. What’s your name?”
“Philip Morton.”
“Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelligent countenance—I go a great deal by countenances. You know the terms?—most favourable to you. No premium—I settle that with Roger. I give board and bed—find your own washing. Habits regular—‘prenticeship only five years; when over, must not set up in the same town. I will see to the indentures. When can you come?”
“When you please, sir.”
“Day after to-morrow, by six o’clock coach.”
“But, sir,” said Philip, “will there be no salary? something, ever so small, that I could send to my another?”
“Salary, at sixteen?—board and bed—no premium! Salary, what for? ‘Prentices have no salary!—you will have every comfort.”
“Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother more;—a little money, ever so little, and take it out of my board: I can do with one meal a day, sir.”
The bookseller was moved: he took a huge pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and mused a moment. He then said, as he re-examined Philip:
“Well, young man, I’ll tell you what we will do. You shall come here first upon trial;—see if we like each other before we sign the indentures; allow you, meanwhile, five shillings a week. If you show talent, will see if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. That do, eh?”