"Where are the letters?"
"Under your nose."
"How dare you answer me like that?"
"Well, it's the truth. They are under your nose."
"Did you give Thorneycroft's man my message?"
"Yes."
"What did he answer?"
"Said you were a liar."
"Oh, he did, did he! What did you reply?"
"Asked him to tell me something I didn't know."
"Thought that clever, didn't you?"
"Not bad."
Whatever faults might be laid to Mr. Lott's door, he at least, I concluded, possesssed the virtue of self-control.
"Anybody been here?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Mr. Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver."
"Kelver, Kelver. Who's Kelver?"
"Know what he is--a fool."
"What do you mean?"
"He's come after the place."
"Is he there?"
"Yes."
"What's he like?"
"Not bad looking; fair--"
"Idiot! I mean is he smart?"
"Just at present--got all his Sunday clothes on."
"Send him in to me. Don't go, don't go."
"How can I send him in to you if I don't go?"
"Take these. Have you finished those bills of lading?"
"No."
"Good God! when will you have finished them?"
"Half an hour after I have begun them."
"Get out, get out! Has that door been open all the time?"
"Well, I don't suppose it's opened itself."
Minikin re-entered with papers in his hand. "In you go," he said.
"Heaven help you!" And I passed in and closed the door behind me.
The room was a replica of the one I had just left. If possible, it was more crowded, more packed with miscellaneous articles. I picked my way through these and approached the desk. Mr. Lott was a small, dingy-looking man, with very dirty hands, and small, restless eyes. I was glad that he was not imposing, or my shyness might have descended upon me; as it was, I felt better able to do myself justice. At once he plunged into the business by seizing and waving in front of my eyes a bulky bundle of letters tied together with red tape.
"One hundred and seventeen answers to an advertisement," he cried with evident satisfaction, "in one day! That shows you the state of the labour market!"
I agreed it was appalling.
"Poor devils, poor devils!" murmured Mr. Lott "what will become of them? Some of them will starve. Terrible death, starvation, Kelver; takes such a long time--especially when you're young."
Here also I found myself in accord with him.
"Living with your parents?"
I explained to him my situation.
"Any friends?"
I informed him I was entirely dependent upon my own efforts.
"Any money? Anything coming in?"
I told him I had a few pounds still remaining to me, but that after that was gone I should be penniless.
"And to think, Kelver, that there are hundreds, thousands of young fellows precisely in your position! How sad, how very sad! How long have you been looking for a berth?"
"A month," I answered him.
"I thought as much. Do you know why I selected your letter out of the whole batch?"
I replied I hoped it was because he judged from it I should prove satisfactory.
"Because it's the worst written of them all." He pushed it across to me. "Look at it. Awful, isn't it?"
I admitted that handwriting was not my strong point.
"Nor spelling either," he added, and with truth. "Who do you think will engage you if I don't?"
"Nobody," he continued, without waiting for me to reply. "A month hence you will still be looking for a berth, and a month after that.
Now, I'm going to do you a good turn; save you from destitution; give you a start in life."
I expressed my gratitude.
He waived it aside. "That is my notion of philanthropy: help those that nobody else will help. That young fellow in the other room--he isn't a bad worker, he's smart, but he's impertinent."
I murmured that I had gathered so much.
"Doesn't mean to be, can't help it. Noticed his trick of looking at you with his glass eye, keeping the other turned away from you?"
I replied that I had.
"Always does it. Used to irritate his last employer to madness. Said to him one day: 'Do turn that signal lamp of yours off, Minikin, and look at me with your real eye.' What do you think he answered? That it was the only one he'd got, and that he didn't want to expose it to shocks. Wouldn't have mattered so much if it hadn't been one of the ugliest men in London."
I murmured my indignation.
"I put up with him. Nobody else would. The poor fellow must live."
I expressed admiration at Mr. Lott's humanity.
"You don't mind work? You're not one of those good-for-nothings who sleep all day and wake up when it's time to go home?"
I assured him that in whatever else I might fail I could promise him industry.
"With some of them," complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of bitterness, "it's nothing but play, girls, gadding about the streets. Work, business--oh, no. I may go bankrupt; my wife and children may go into the workhouse. No thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, clothes them. How much salary do you want?"
I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble Brother; it would be necessary to be moderate in one's demands. "Five-and-twenty shillings a week," I suggested.
He repeated the figure in a scream. "Five-and-twenty shillings for writing like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything about the business. Five-and-twenty!--Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you twelve."
"But I can't live on twelve," I explained.
"Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how to live. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch cheese and a pint of bitter."
His recital made my mouth water.
"You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. Half the diseases you young fellows suffer from are brought about by overeating."
"Now, you take my advice," continued Mr. Lott; "try vegetariani**. In the morning, a little oatmeal. Wonderfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal: look at the Scotch. For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there's more nourishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound of beefsteak--more gluten. That's what you want, more gluten; no corpses, no dead bodies. Why, I've known young fellows, vegetarians, who have lived like fighting cocks on sevenpence a day.
Seven times seven are forty-nine. How much do you pay for your room?"
I told him.
