As he passed through the outer office he was arrested by one of the clerks laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Well, Mr Foster,” said Bax, a bright smile chasing the frown from his face, “it seems we’re to swim if we can, or sink if we can’t this winter;—but what want ye with me?”
“You are to call me Guy, not Mister Foster,” said the lad, gaily. “I want to know where you are to be found after six this evening.”
“At the ‘Three Jolly Tars,’” answered Bax, clapping on his glazed hat.
“All right, I’ll look you up. Good-day.”
“Guy Foster,” shouted Mr Denham from the inner room.
“Yes, uncle,” and in another moment the youth was standing, pen in hand, in the august presence of his relative, who regarded him with a cold stare of displeasure.
There could scarcely have been conceived a stronger contrast in nature than that which existed between the starched, proud, and portly uncle, and the tall, handsome, and hearty young nephew, whose age was scarcely twenty years.
“How often am I to tell you, sir,” said Mr Denham, “that ‘yes, uncle,’ is much too familiar and unbusinesslike a phrase to be used in this office in the hearing of your fellow-clerks?”
“I beg pardon, uncle, I’m sure I had no intention of—”