His meditations, which must have been those of an optimist, were curtailed by the entrance of a thin, formal, intellectual, yet slightly melancholy gentleman, whose refined and sensitive features were yet stamped with the simper of a large content. Perhaps this cachet of those who take a large view of things had not always been upon that refined countenance, but many years’ association with a foremost practitioner of the amenities of life had had an indelible effect. Habit had become nature. Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw might once have had his modest doubts as became any other private gentleman; but he was as fundamentally sound as the great house of Crumpett and Hawker itself. Of the simper there could be no doubt; for in mien, in manner, in deportment he was designed to suggest that, like the wizened boy himself, he had been modelled carefully upon a superb original which at this moment was standing with its coat-tails held away from the fire.
“Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I have interviewed the applicants; and, after giving every consideration to each candidate among those of whom we decided to limit our choice, I have come to the conclusion that Mr. William Jordan, Junior, is most fitted to enter the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. Unfortunately he is not very robust. Have you any views, Mr. Walkinshaw?”
Presumably in these high altitudes these very dangerous implements were permitted to the English gentleman. Or, perhaps, it was that with his fine instinct, Mr. Octavius Crumpett had divined that in any case the views of Mr. Walkinshaw would be orthodox. For after that gentleman had proceeded very earnestly to scrutinize the shrinking countenance of Mr. William Jordan, Junior, his views concurred with those that had been already expressed by the head of the firm.
“No, sir,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “not very robust.”
“May I ask, Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “are the duties of an arduous nature which are incident to the career of a handy youth? I am afraid I have no first-hand knowledge.”
The simper of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was of a most winning character.
“No, sir, I dare say not,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, taking the extreme course of permitting himself to lapse sufficiently from the deportment of his model as to indulge in a hearty laugh. But the circumstances seemed to demand it. “I think I am correct, sir,” continued Mr. Walkinshaw, “in saying that the duties usually incident to the career of a handy youth are not in any sense of the word light ones. But in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker they may admit of mitigation.”
“Could you tell me, Mr. Walkinshaw, what would be asked of one who sustained that character in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker?” said the head of that great house with a sweetness that was a happy mingling of the cherub and the seraph.
“His chief duty would consist, sir, in pasting labels on rejected manuscripts,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “and he would be called upon to fill in his time by addressing envelopes, carrying ledgers, copying letters, keeping the counting-house tidy, and in trying to be of general service.”
“Do you feel that you could sustain these responsibilities?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett to the applicant.