"Indeed!" Well, my name was so-and-so. I had taken the liberty of sending him an application, I did not know if it had been of any use.
He repeated my name a couple of times and commenced to laugh.
"Well now, you shall see," he said, taking my letter out of his breast- pocket, "if you will just be good enough to see how you deal with dates, sir. You dated your letter 1848," and the man roared with laughter.
"Yes, that was rather a mistake," I said, abashed--a distraction, a want of thought; I admitted it.
"You see I must have a man who, as a matter of fact, makes no mistakes in figures," said he. "I regret it, your handwriting is clear, and I like your letter, too, but--"
I waited a while; this could not possibly be the man's final say. He busied himself again with the bags.
"Yes, it was a pity," I said; "really an awful pity, but of course it would not occur again; and, after all, surely this little error could not have rendered me quite unfit to keep books?"
"No, I didn't say that," he answered, "but in the meantime it had so much weight with me that I decided at once upon another man."
"So the place is filled?"
"Yes."