“Oh!” said Hawkesbury; “the petty cash? My uncle was saying something about my keeping it. I think it’s a pity he couldn’t let it stay where it was; you’re so much more used to it than I am. Besides, I’ve plenty of work to do without it.”
“I suppose I shall get some of your work to do for you,” said Doubleday—“that is, if I’m competent!”
Hawkesbury laughed softly, as if it were a joke, and Doubleday relapsed into surly silence.
It was still some minutes before the other clerks were due. Hawkesbury used the interval in conversing amiably with me in a whisper.
“I’m afraid Doubleday’s put out,” said he. “You know, he’s a very good sort of fellow; but, between you and me, don’t you think he’s a trifle too unsteady?”
What could I say? I certainly could not call Doubleday steady, as a rule, and yet I disliked to have to assent to Hawkesbury’s question. “He’s very steady in business,” I said.
“Yes; but at other times I’m afraid he’s not,” said Hawkesbury. “Not that I’m blaming him. But of course, when a fellow’s extravagant, and all that, it is a temptation, isn’t it?”
“Do you mean a temptation to be dishonest?”
“Well, it’s rather a strong way of putting it. I don’t suppose for a moment Doubleday is not perfectly trustworthy; no more does my uncle.”
“I should think not,” said I, rather warmly.