“That’ll do me,” was as much as he had cared to say.
Thereupon the worthy M. Moche had proceeded to put a number of leading questions.
What could Fandor do? Write? Yes?... Good. That was capital. He could draw, too? then he could draw signatures? in fact, copy signatures, eh? copy them, you know, eh? Yes, again? Better and better ... The old man seemed delighted.
Fandor had judicially sized up his new employer by this time; yes, there was no doubt he could be of great service to him on occasions.
Then M. Moche had asked the young man to tell him precisely who and what he was. But on that point, Fandor had proved reticent to the last degree.
“I’ve got pals,” this was all he would say, “who have nicknamed me ‘Little Tremendous,’ because I’m pretty nimble with my maulies and ain’t afraid to use ’em.”
The information was vague enough. But Moche was not the man to insist on any excessive precision of statement. He felt little doubt his new clerk must have had a somewhat chequered past. If it didn’t suit him to let out exactly who he was, well, that was his business ... And that was why Moche, after informing Fandor that he would be where clients were concerned the “Chief of Staff” in his office, addressed the young man familiarly by the name he had chosen to give himself.
“Look here, young Handy Man, I’m going to send you on an errand.”
“Very good, M’sieu Moche.”
“An errand to a pretty girl’s....”