The former was sitting in gloomy silence, and the latter was making as if he would say something, but thought better of it, and smiled instead.
"Josephus," said Harry, "what the devil makes you so gloomy? You can't be hungry still?"
"No," he replied. "It isn't that; a junior clerk fifty-five years old has no right to get hungry."
"What is it, then?"
"They talk of changes in the office, that is all. Some of the juniors will be promoted; not me, of course, and some will have to go. After forty years in the brewery, I shall have to go. That's all."
"Seems rough, doesn't it? Can't you borrow a handful of malt, and set up a little brewery for yourself?"
"It is only starvation. After all, it doesn't matter—nobody cares what happens to a junior clerk. There are plenty more. And the workhouse is said to be well managed. Perhaps they will let me keep their accounts."
"When do you think—the—the reduction will be made?"
"Next month, they say."