At last he found a place where an assistant book-keeper was wanted. Dennis's heart leaped within him, but sank again as he remembered how little he knew of the art. "But I can learn quickly," he thought to himself.
The man looked carelessly at his poor little letter, and then said, in a business-like tone, "Show me a specimen of your handwriting."
Poor Dennis had never written a good hand, but at college had learned to write a miserable scrawl, in rapidly taking notes of lectures. Moreover, he was excited, and could not do himself justice. Even from his sanguine heart hope ebbed away; but he took the pen and scratched a line or two, of which he himself was ashamed. The man looked at them with an expression of mild disgust, and then said, "Mr. Jones, hand me your ledger."
The head book-keeper passed the volume to his employer, who showed
Dennis entries looking as from copper-plate, and quietly remarked:
"The young man we employ must write like that, and thoroughly understand
book-keeping. Good-morning, sir."
Dennis walked out, feeling almost as crestfallen as if he had been convicted of stealing, but the noon-day sun was shining in the sky, the streets were full of life and bustle, and hope revived.
"I shall find the right niche before long," he said to himself, and trudged on.
Some time after he entered a retail dry-goods store.
"Yes, they wanted a young man there, but he was rather old."
Still the merchant saw that Dennis was fine-looking, would appear well behind the counter, and make a taking salesman with the ladies, he stopped to parley a moment more.
"Do you understand the business?"