‘Not yet. I think I know a man who’ll suit me, though.’
‘You wouldn’t be disposed to give me the chance?’
Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh.
‘You’re rather above my figure nowadays, old man!’ exclaimed Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.
‘Shall you pay a pound a week?’
‘Twenty-five shillings. It’ll have to be a man who can be trusted to take money from the paying patients.’
‘Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?’
Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.
‘What the deuce do you mean?’
‘The fact is,’ Reardon replied, ‘I want variety of occupation. I can’t stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. It’s because I have tried to do so that—well, practically, I have broken down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels; I shall be better for it in every way. You know that I’m equal to the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful than most clerks you could get.’