“I suppose you mean yourself,” said Tom quickly.
“No, I don’t,” said the other, provoked; “I mean you.”
“Then you’re mistaken. I am not an errand-boy.”
“Are you a newsboy or boot-black? If you’ve got a bill against Mr. Armstrong for blacking his boots it won’t be necessary for you to see him.”
“I don’t black boots,” said Tom. “Sometimes I do a little in blacking eyes.”
“You’re the cheekiest youngster I’ve met lately.”
“And you’re the most impudent clerk.”
The young man would have replied, but a voice from an inner room called him, and he hurried away.
“I wonder whether he’ll do my errand,” thought Tom. “If he doesn’t, I’ll make a fuss.”
But the card was delivered. The clerk was actuated partly by curiosity, partly by the desire to carry back to Tom a curt refusal. But he was rather astonished when his employer, with a look of interest, said: