Mr Medlock took a turn or two up and down the room, meditating with himself and keeping his eye all the time on the boy.
“Yes,” said he, “450—a lot, isn’t it? Very sad to think of it.”
“Very sad,” said Reginald, feeling called upon to say something.
“Now,” said Mr Medlock, coming to a halt in his walk in front of the boy, “I suppose you guess I wouldn’t have asked you to call here if I and my fellow-directors hadn’t been pleased with your letter.”
Reginald looked pleased and said nothing.
“And now I’ve seen you and heard what you’ve got to say, I think you’re not a bad young fellow; but—”
Mr Medlock paused, and Reginald’s face changed to one of keen anxiety.
“I’m afraid, Mr Cruden, you’re not altogether the sort we want.”
The boy’s face fell sadly.
“I would do my best,” he said, as bravely as he could, “if you’d try me. I don’t know what the work is yet, but I’m ready to do anything I can.”