“You’re—ah—aren’t you very young, you know, to be a supercargo, Mr. Silburn?” the young clerk asked.
“Well, I’m growing a little older every day,” Kit answered.
“You must have paid—aw—aw—a heavy premium to get into such a place at your age,” Watkins went on.
“Premium?” Kit repeated; he did not understand the English system of paying a premium to have a boy apprenticed to any business.
“Y-a-a-s,” Watkins continued. “My father had to pay a hundred pounds to get me into this office, and I’ll not earn enough to pay my board for the next two or three years.”
“We don’t pay any premiums in our country,” Kit exclaimed. “A boy or young man gets a salary there for working, and the more he’s worth the more he gets.”
“Aw, really!” Mr. Watkins exclaimed. “No wonder America is such a good country for young men. I’ve often thought of going over there, don’t you know, if I could only get the chance.”
At first Kit felt something of a dislike for the young Englishman, perhaps on account of his peculiar style of dress and strange manner of talking. But when he came to know him better, the dislike melted away, for he found Watkins to be a very clever fellow.
Instead of going to the railway station they went in the other direction, down to the end of London Bridge, and there took one of the little river steamers for Gravesend.
“I want to show you some of the sights of London,” Watkins said, “and when I go over to America, you can show me around New York.”