“All right,” said Doubleday, “you can cut home to your mother-in-law. You’ll probably hear no more about it. There’s millions of other loafers after the berth.”
“When will I know?” I faltered.
“Let’s see, this is the nineteenth century, ain’t it? Call again about the year two thousand. February the thirty-first’s the most convenient day for us, we’re all at home then. Ta-ta.”
I departed rather disconsolately, and waited half an hour outside in the street for Smith.
“Well,” said I, when presently he appeared, “how did you get on?”
“Not very grand,” said he. “I had to do some accounts like you. I heard one of the partners say yours were pretty good when the clerk brought them in.”
“Really?” cried I, with pleasure I could hardly disguise. “But, I say, Jack, unless you get on too, it’ll be an awful sell.”
“We can’t both get on,” said Jack.
“I don’t know,” said I. And I related what I had overheard in the counting-house.
Smith brightened up at this. A very little encouragement was enough to set us building castles in the air. And we did build castles in the air that morning as we paced the crowded city streets.