“Lucky for you,” said young Trimble, “you got hold of ma and pinned her down to taking you on on the spot. What’s she going to pay you?”
The question did not altogether please the new assistant, but he was anxious not to come across his colleague too early in their acquaintanceship.
“She pays me nothing the first month. After that, if I suit, I’m to have a pound a month.”
“If you suit? I suppose you know that depends on whether I like you or not?”
“I hope not,” blurted out Jeffreys—“that is,” added he, seeing his mistake, “I hope we shall get on well together.”
“Depends,” said Trimble. “I may as well tell you at once I hate stuck-uppedness (this was a compound word worthy of a young schoolmaster). If you’re that sort you’d better cry off at once. If you can do your work without giving yourself airs, I shall let you alone.”
Jeffreys was strongly tempted after this candid avowal to take the youthful snob’s advice and cry off. But the memory of yesterday’s miserable experiences restrained him. He therefore replied, with as little contempt as he was able to put into the words,—
“Thanks.”
Trimble’s quick ear detected the ill-disguised scorn of the reply. “You needn’t try on that sort of talk,” said he; “I can tell you plump, it won’t do. You needn’t think because ma took you on for the asking, you’re going to turn up your nose at the place!”
“I don’t think so,” said Jeffreys, struggling hard with himself. “How many boys are there here?”