“Of course,” said Stan. “My father and uncle sent me to help you.”
“Well, don’t blame me if you get your head taken off.”
“No,” said Stan coolly, and with a peculiar smile; “I don’t think I shall do that—then.”
“More do I,” said the manager grimly. “Well, here you are, and I suppose I must make the best of you.”
“I suppose so,” said Stan.
“You’ll have to work pretty hard—make entries and keep the day-book. I suppose you can do that?”
“I suppose so,” said the lad, “but I can’t say for certain till I try.”
“All right; then the sooner you try the better, because I’ve got enough to do here in keeping things straight; and if you find that you can’t, I shall just pack you off back to your father and uncle. You’re too young, and not the sort of chap I should have chosen for the job.”
“Indeed! What sort of a lad would you have chosen?”
“Oh, not a dandified, pomatumed fellow like you, who is so very particular about his collar and cuffs, and looks as if he’d be afraid to dirty his hands.”