“Humph!” said Mr Medlock. “What we advertise for is sharp agents, to sell goods on commission among their friends. Now, do you think you could sell £500 worth of wine and cigars and that sort of thing every year among your friends? You’d need to do that to make £50 a year, you know. You understand? Could you go round to your old neighbours and crack up our goods, and book their orders and that sort of thing? I don’t think you could, myself. It strikes me you are too much of a gentleman.”
Reginald sat silent for a moment, with the colour coming and going in his cheeks; then he looked up and said, slowly—
“I’m afraid I could not do that, sir—I didn’t know you wanted that.”
So saying he took up his hat and rose to go.
Mr Medlock watched him with a smile, if not of sympathy, at any rate of approval, and when he rose motioned him back to his seat.
“Not so fast, my man; I like your spirit, and we may hit it yet.”
Reginald resumed his seat with a new interest in his anxious face.
“You wouldn’t suit us as a drummer—that is,” said Mr Medlock, hastily correcting himself, “as a tout—an agent; but you might suit us in another way. We’re looking out for a gentlemanly young fellow for secretary—to superintend the concern for the directors, and be the medium of communication between them and the agents. We want an educated young man, and one we can depend upon. As to the work, that’s picked up in a week easily. Now, suppose—suppose when I go back to Liverpool I were to recommend you for a post like that, what would you say?”
Reginald was almost too overwhelmed for words; he could only stammer,—
“Oh, sir, how kind of you!”