“Yes; I was not very old. I got my first school when I was fifteen.”
“Do you write a good hand? Please come to this desk, and show me what you can do.”
Herbert complied readily with the request, and was most happy to do so, for he had spent many hours in practicing penmanship, and now wrote a beautiful hand.
Richard Goldwin was surprised when he took up the sheet of paper and ran his eye over the well formed letters.
“Mr. Mortimer, will you please show me what you can do with the pen?” said the banker.
Felix rose to his feet, and the color rose to his face. He wasn’t very powerful with the pen, and he knew it; but another matter disconcerted him. He feared, and well he might, that his writing would resemble, only too closely, that in the recommendation which he had shown to Mr. Goldwin. But he was equal to the emergency, and, to make the disguise perfect, he gave to his writing the left hand or backhand stroke. This was done at the expense of his penmanship, which, however, would not have been considered absolutely bad, had it not been compared with the gracefully and perfectly cut letters of Herbert Randolph.
The banker looked at both critically for a moment, and then, after a pause, said:
“Mr. Mortimer, I would like to speak with you alone.”
The latter followed him to the outer office.
“Your manner pleases me, young man,” said Mr. Goldwin, pleasantly, “and with one exception I see but little choice between you two boys, but that little is in your competitor’s favor.”