“And—and,” faltered the poor mother, who was beginning to realise the boys’ lot better than they did themselves—“and what sort of companions are they likely to have, Mr Richmond?”
“I believe the manager is succeeding in getting respectable men as workmen. I hope so.”
“Workmen!” exclaimed Reginald, suddenly. “Do you mean we are to be workmen, Mr Richmond? Just like any fellows in the street. Couldn’t you find anything better than that for us?”
“My dear Master Cruden, I am very sorry for you, and would gladly see you in a better position. But it is not a case where we can choose. This opening has offered itself. Of course, you are not bound to accept it, but my advice is, take what you can get in these hard times.”
“Oh, of course, we’re paupers, I—forgot,” said Reg, bitterly, “and beggars mayn’t be choosers. Anything you like, mother,” added he, meeting Mrs Cruden’s sorrowful look with forced gaiety. “I’ll sweep a crossing if you like, Mr Richmond, or black your office-boy’s boots,—anything to get a living.”
Poor boy! He broke down before he could finish the sentence, and his flourish ended in something very like a sob.
Horace was hardly less miserable, but he said less. Evidently, as Reg himself had said, beggars could not be choosers, and when presently Mr Richmond left, and the little family talked the matter over late into the afternoon, it was finally decided that the offer of the manager of the Rocket Newspaper Company, Limited, should be accepted, and that the boys should make their new start in life on the Monday morning following.