“Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. You would not be worth half as much.”
“You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege allowed me.”
“Then I don’t think you’ll get it with us. But look here, young Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of the clerks—you can speak to him.”
“Can I see him this afternoon, sir?”
“He’ll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that.”
The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. “Is it usual, sir?”
“Usual—no! But it is necessary in your case”
There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the “your,” natural to the man. Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove’s he could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the security.
It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove—who was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything—unless prepared to say that security could be given. His father’s he thought he might command: but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings.
“Can I see my brother?” he inquired of the clerks in the office.