The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner apartment, and resumed his occupation.
Ned tapped at the door indicated.
“Come in,” cried a stern voice.
Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower. On entering, he beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with his back to the fire.
Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face. Thermometrically speaking, he fell to the freezing-point.
“You are young Sinton, I suppose. You’ve come later than I expected.”
Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding the house.
“Umph! Your uncle tells me that you’re a sharp fellow, and write a good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?”
“No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible.”
“At least!” said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant for smile, perhaps for a grin. “Why, that’s the most you could say of it. No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be bad that is legible. Have you studied law?”