“I say,” said he, with glee, “you’re to be sent too to carry his bag—see if you aren’t.”
However, Doubleday was wrong for once. The honour he prophesied was not reserved for me. But another was, almost as surprising.
“Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, almost in his old wheedling tone, “I shall be away for three or four days. I’ll get you to keep the petty-cash accounts till I return. I won’t leave the regular book out, as I have not time to balance it. You can enter anything on a separate paper, which I will copy in when I return. There is £3 in the cash-box now. You had better keep it locked up in your desk.”
I could not help being surprised that he should fix on me of all persons to undertake this responsibility for him during his absence. It seemed so much more naturally to devolve on its former guardian that I could not help asking, “Don’t you think Doubleday had better—”
“I prefer you should do it, please,” said Hawkesbury, decisively, bustling off to another desk at the same moment, and so cutting short further parley.
So I had nothing for it but to take up the cash-box, and, after making sure it contained exactly the £3 he had mentioned, transfer it to my own desk.
When I told Doubleday that afternoon what had happened he waxed very facetious on the head of it. He was undoubtedly a little hurt that I should be selected for the charge instead of him. But we were too good friends to misunderstand one another in the matter.
“I expect he’s left it with you because you’re a young hand, and he thinks you’re sure to make a mess of it. That would just suit him.”
“I’ll do my best to deprive him of the luxury of putting me right,” said I.
“If you do get up a tree,” said Doubleday, “I’m your man. But I hope you won’t, for I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”