“Mr Cruden, sir,” said the waiter.
“Ah! Mr Cruden, good morning. Take a seat. John, I shall be ready for lunch in about ten-minutes.”
Reginald, with the agitating conviction that his fate would be sealed one way or another in ten-minutes, obeyed, and darted a nervous glance at his new acquaintance.
He rather liked the looks of him. He looked a comfortable, well-to-do gentleman, with rather a handsome face, and a manner by no means disheartening. Mr Medlock in turn indulged in a careful survey of the boy as he sat shyly before him trying to look self-possessed, but not man of the world enough to conceal his anxiety or excitement.
“Let me see,” said Mr Medlock, putting his hands in his pocket and leaning against the mantel-piece, “you replied to the advertisement, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Reginald.
“And what made you think you would suit us?”
“Well, sir,” stammered Reginald, “you wanted respectable intelligent young men—and—and I thought I—that is, I hoped I might answer that description.”
Mr Medlock took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his chin.
“Have you been in the printing trade long?”