“So I was, sir, and I believed I was going to have smallpox, but the doctor says I’m not.”
“And does that account for your face being in that state, pray?”
“No, sir, I got that boxing—that is fighting.”
“Most discreditable conduct! Is that all you have to say?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry I was away yesterday.”
“Well, now, listen to what I have to say,” said Mr Barnacle, laying down his pen, and leaning forward in his chair. “You’ve not been doing well lately, Batchelor. I’ve watched you and I’ve watched your work, and I don’t like it. I was mistaken in you, sir. You’re idle, sir, and unless you improve I sha’n’t keep you another week, mind that.”
“Indeed, sir—” I began.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr Barnacle. “We’ve no room in this office for boys of your kind, and unless you change you must go somewhere else. You’ve played the fool quite enough here.”
I would fain have replied to justify myself, but in the junior partner’s present temper the attempt would have been hazardous.
So I said nothing and returned to my work, determined for my own credit, as well as in my own interest, to show Mr Barnacle that he had judged me harshly.