“Minikin's my name,” he returned, “Sylvanus Minikin. You don't happen by any chance to know what you've come for, I suppose?”
Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way among the goods that covered the floor and pull his ears for him. From his grave and massive face, he might, for all I knew, be the head clerk.
“I have called to see Mr. Lott,” I replied, with dignity; “I have an appointment.” I produced the letter from my pocket, and leaning across a sewing-machine, I handed it to him for his inspection. Having read it, he suddenly took from its socket the eye with which he had been hitherto regarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon his pocket handkerchief, turned upon me his other. Having satisfied himself, he handed me back my letter.
“Want my advice?” he asked.
I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the affirmative.
“Hook it,” was his curt counsel.
“Why?” I asked. “Isn't he a good employer?”
Replacing his glass eye, he turned again to his work. “If employment is what you want,” answered Mr. Minikin, “you'll get it. Best employer in London. He'll keep you going for twenty-four hours a day, and then offer you overtime at half salary.”
“I must get something to do,” I confessed.
“Sit down then,” suggested Mr. Minikin. “Rest while you can.”