“Come in,” I heard a voice answer, and the clerk entered.
He emerged again in a moment and beckoned to me. Now was the time! I braced myself up to the ordeal, and not heeding the facetious dig in the ribs which the clerk gave me in passing, I put on my best face, and entered the awful presence.
Two gentlemen sat facing one another at the table, one of them old, the other middle-aged. These I instantly guessed to be Messrs Merrett and Barnacle. Mr Barnacle, the junior partner, who had a sharp voice and a stern face, undertook my examination, Mr Merrett only coming in occasionally with some mild observation.
“You are Batchelor,” said Mr Barnacle, when I had entered and carefully closed the door behind me. I noticed he held in his hand my original letter of application. “You are Frederick Batchelor. How is it you are late?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” faltered I, at this rather discouraging beginning, “but—”
And here I stuck. What was the use of trying to explain what still remained the fact?
Mr Barnacle eyed me keenly, and continued, “You are fourteen, you say, have just left school, and are good at arithmetic. What school were you at?”
“Stonebridge House, sir.”
“Where is that?”
“In Cliffshire.”