“Then, there's the finance department,” said he; “watching the rise and fall of the exchanges, buying and selling gold. Herr Ulrich, in that office with the blue door, could tell you it's not to be picked up of an afternoon. Perhaps you might as well begin with him; his is not a bad school to take the fine edge off you.”
“I shall do whatever you advise me.”
“I'll speak to Herr Ulrich, then,” said he; and he left me, to return almost immediately, and conduct me within the precincts of the blue door.
Herr Ulrich was a tall, thin, ascetic-looking man, with his hair brushed rigidly back from the narrowest head I ever saw. His whole idea of life was the office, which he arrived at by daybreak, and never left, except to visit the Bourse, till late at night. He disliked, of all things, new faces about him; and it was a piece of malice on the cashier's part to bring me before him.
“I believed I had explained to Herr Ignaz already,” said he to the cashier, “that I am not a schoolmaster.”
“Well, well,” broke in the other, in a muffled voice, “try the lad. He may not be so incompetent. They tell me he has had some education.”
Herr Ulrich raised his spectacles, and surveyed me from head to foot for some seconds. “You have been in the yard?” said he, in question.
“Yes, sir.”
“And is counting oaken staves the first step to learning foreign exchanges, think you?”
“I should say not, sir.”