“I hope so, Mr Van Heldre, sir, but his writing’s as bad as a schoolboy’s.”
“That will improve.”
“He’s always late of a morning.”
“I’ll ask him to correct that.”
“And he’s always doing what I hate in a young man, seeing how short is life, sir, and how soon we’re gone—he’s always looking at the clock and yawning.”
“Never mind, Crampton, he’ll soon give up all that sort of thing. The young man is like an ill-trained tree. He has grown rather wild, but now he has been transplanted to an orderly office, to be under your constant supervision, he will gradually imbibe your habits and precision. It will be his making.”
“Now, now, now,” said the old clerk, shaking his head, “that’s flattering, sir. My habits and precision. No, no, sir; I’m a very bad clerk, and I’m growing old as fast as I can.”
“You are the best clerk in the west of England, Crampton, and you are only growing old at the customary rate. And now to oblige me, look over these little blemishes in the young man’s character. There is a good deal of the spoiled boy in him, but I believe his heart’s right; and for more reasons than one I want him to develop into a good man of business—such a one as we can make of him if we try.”
“Don’t say another word, Mr Van Heldre. You know me, and if I say as long as the young man is honest and straightforward I’ll do my best for him, I suppose that’s sufficient.”
“More than sufficient, Crampton.”