And, to do the barber justice, I got it. I barely knew myself in the glass when the operation was over. I had some misgivings as to the remarks of Evans & Company in the morning—at any rate, they wouldn’t curl my hair any more.
Miss Bousfield and Miss Steele regarded me with something like dismay when they saw me, but were polite enough to make no remark beyond giving me permission to wear my hat if I felt a draught.
“Miss Steele has been telling me of your plan of work,” said Miss Bousfield; “and I fully approve, on the understanding you are serious about it. I am not so sanguine as Miss Steele is; still, I do not wish to discourage you, Jones. But understand, it means a year’s hard work.”
I assured her I was prepared for any amount of work, and Miss Steele, whose ambition was as keenly aroused as mine, gave a general promise on my behalf that I would work like a horse.
“Now,” said she, when Miss Bousfield had left us, “you’re in for it, Jones. If you don’t work, mind, it will be a disgrace to me as well as you.”
I fear, during the months that followed, this ardent young “coach” was frequently on the point of disgrace. For a week or two I surprised myself with my industry. Then I caught myself wondering at odd times whether I was really as sure of passing as I fancied, and whether, if I failed, it would not be a horrible sell to have worked so hard for nothing.
Then for a day or so I came in a little late, and took to grumbling over my tasks.
“Now, look here, Jones,” said she, one day, “you were five minutes late on Monday, ten minutes late on Tuesday and Wednesday, and a quarter of an hour late to-day. How much is that in the week?”
“Forty minutes,” said I; mental arithmetic was a strong point with me.
“Very good; there’s forty minutes lost. The examination may turn on the very lesson you might have learned in that time. Now, I’m not going to threaten you, but what should you say if I were to call at the office and fetch you every day?”