“No, sir, I have not.”
“Umph! you’re too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?”
“Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day.”
“Well, you may come here on Monday, and I’ll speak to you again, and see what you can do. I’m too busy just now. Good-morning.”
Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the door-handle.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “may I ask what room I shall occupy, if—if—I come to work here?”
Mr Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, “There.” Ned fell to twenty below the freezing-point.
“And pray, sir,” he continued, “may I ask what are office-hours?”
“From nine a.m. till nine p.m., with an interval for meals,” said Mr Moxton, sharply; “but we usually continue at work till eleven at night, sometimes later. Good-morning.”
Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office.