“A month,” I answered him.
“I thought as much. Do you know why I selected your letter out of the whole batch?”
I replied I hoped it was because he judged from it I should prove satisfactory.
“Because it's the worst written of them all.” He pushed it across to me. “Look at it. Awful, isn't it?”
I admitted that handwriting was not my strong point.
“Nor spelling either,” he added, and with truth. “Who do you think will engage you if I don't?”
“Nobody,” he continued, without waiting for me to reply. “A month hence you will still be looking for a berth, and a month after that. Now, I'm going to do you a good turn; save you from destitution; give you a start in life.”
I expressed my gratitude.
He waived it aside. “That is my notion of philanthropy: help those that nobody else will help. That young fellow in the other room—he isn't a bad worker, he's smart, but he's impertinent.”
I murmured that I had gathered so much.