“To-day's Times is here, sir.” He whisked off, to return in a moment with the paper, neatly folded.
“You'll find a more comfortable seat behind the screen, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Bob, regarding him with interest—he was so dapper, so alert, so all that an office-boy in a staid lawyer's establishment ought to be. “How old might you be?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“And are you going to grow into a lawyer?”
“I'm afraid I'll never do that, sir,” said the office-boy gravely. “I may be head clerk, perhaps. But—” he stopped, confused.
“But what?”
“I'd rather fly, sir, than anything in the world!” He looked worshippingly at Bob's uniform. “If the war had only not stopped before I was old enough, I might have had a chance!”
“Oh, you'll have plenty of chances,” Bob told him consolingly. “In five years' time you'll be taking Mr. M'Clinton's confidential papers across to Paris in an aeroplane—and bringing him back a reply before lunch!”
“Do you think so, sir?” The office-boy's eyes danced. Suddenly he resumed his professional gravity.