'Just what I was telling him, your honour,' said the foreman, scowling at the boy. 'He has come to look for work, he says, but I told him we wanted no country bumpkins here.'
Sir Christopher cast a searching glance at the boy. 'What sort of work can you do?' he asked.
The boy, Philip Wood, by name, was much flustered at being addressed by the great architect himself, and hardly knowing what he said, he stammered out, 'I am very fond of carving, sir.'
'Carving—umph! What was the last thing you carved?' asked Sir Christopher.
'The last thing was a trough, but——' and Philip was about to describe the group of roses and columbines he had made for the Squire's chimney-piece, but was interrupted by a scornful laugh from the foreman.
'A trough! and he to seek work on St. Paul's! Let him return to his swine.'
Sir Christopher joined in the laugh. Then, seeing the crestfallen look of the boy, he said, half-scornfully, 'Troughs! Well, then, you have seen pigs. Suppose your carve me a sow and her little ones; that will be in your line. Bring it me here this day week.'
He walked away, and the workmen burst into loud laughter as they hustled Philip out of the yard.
He, poor fellow, was utterly cast down at this mocking suggestion of Sir Christopher's, and hurrying back to his attic he flung himself on his bed and burst into tears.
Some hours later, his landlady, a motherly old soul, who pitied the friendless lad, toiled up the attic stairs with a basin of broth for him, knowing that he had had no food that day.