"I don't like to stand in the way of any other boy," said Paul, considerately.
"You will not. This nephew—Julius Clay—I happen to know is an unreliable boy, who is disobedient at home, and would not give me satisfaction. In any event I wouldn't take him."
"Won't Mr. Manson be prejudiced against me?" asked Paul.
"He has no right to be. I am under no obligations to employ a boy I have no confidence in, however nearly related he may be to Mr. Manson. In any event I shall be your friend, and I am inclined to think that will be sufficient to save you from annoyance."
Nevertheless Paul, who had some knowledge of human nature, felt sorry that his entrance at the office was likely to prove disagreeable to a man occupying so important a position as the book-keeper.
"However, Mr. Bradford is my friend," he said to himself, "and I won't trouble myself."
Mr. Manson had, of course, heard of his employer's narrow escape from death, and he had gone up to congratulate him, but had not actually seen him, Mr. Bradford at the time being asleep. He knew nothing of the details of the casualty, except what he had read in the daily papers, and was quite ignorant of Paul's existence even. He therefore had no warning of the engagement which was to bring disappointment to him and his nephew.
About ten o'clock in the morning—for Paul had previously called by appointment at Mr. Bradford's house—our hero entered that gentleman's counting-room.
Sitting on a high stool was a tall, thin, sallow-complexioned man, who looked to be rather over thirty years of age.
This was Emanuel Manson, the book-keeper.