“What’s your name?” demanded Reginald.
“Why, Love,” replied the boy, in a tone as if to say you had only to look at him to know his name.
“Well then, young Love, clear these things away and come and make a start with these envelopes.”
“No fear. I ain’t got to do no envellups. You’re got to do ’em.”
“I say you’ve got to do them too,” said Reginald, sternly; “and if you don’t choose to do what you’re told I can’t keep you here.”
The boy looked up in astonishment.
“You ain’t my governor,” said he.
“I am, though,” said Reginald, “and you’d better make up your mind to it. If you choose to do as you’re told we shall get on all right, but I’ll not keep you here if you don’t.”
His tone and manner effectually overawed the mutinous youngster. He could not have spoken like that unless he possessed sufficient authority to back it up, and as it did not suit the convenience of Mr Love just then to receive the “sack” from any one, he capitulated with the honours of war, put his Tim Tigerskin into his pocket, and placed himself at his new “governor’s” disposal.
The evening’s work consisted in addressing some two hundred or three hundred envelopes to persons whose names Mr Medlock had ticked in a directory, and enclosing prospectuses therein. It was not very entertaining work; still, as it was his first introduction to the operations of the Corporation, it had its attractions for the new secretary. A very fair division of labour was mutually agreed upon by the two workers before starting. Reginald was to copy out the addresses, and Master Love, whose appetite was always good, was to fold and insert the circulars and “lick up” the envelopes.