“The thing is a gift, after all,” he declared, generously. “I can keep accounts, and earn a fair salary at it, but if I attempted fiction I should soon be up a tree.”
Mr. Barnes nodded his approval of such sentiments.
“Every one to his trade, I say,” he remarked. “What sort of salaries do they pay now in the book trade?” he asked guilelessly.
“Very fair,” Mr. Fitzgerald admitted candidly,—“very fair indeed.”
“When I was your age,” Mr. Barnes said reflectively, “I was getting—let me see—forty-two shillings a week. Pretty good pay, too, for those days.”
Mr. Fitzgerald admitted the fact.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “salaries are a little higher now all round. Mr. Howell has been very kind to me,—in fact I have had two raises this year. I am getting four pounds ten now.”
“Four pounds ten per week?” Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, laying down her knife and fork.
“Certainly,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered. “After Christmas, I have some reason to believe that it may be five pounds.”
Mr. Barnes whistled softly, and looked at the young man with a new respect.