"Nickperry"; you
remember? Nick Freydon.' He referred to a letter on the table.
'Shorthand, you know, and all that. Well, what about it? D'jew
remember?'

'Yes, yes, to be sure. Well, what about it?' This seemed to be a
favourite phrase between father and son.

'Well, what was it you said? Thirty-five bob for a start, eh? Oh,
well, you'll see to it, anyway, won't you? That's right. So
long--er--Nickperry!'

'Good-morning, sir!'

And with that I found myself following Mr. John along a darkish
passage to a well-lighted apartment, divided by a ground-glass
partition from an office in which I saw perhaps eight or ten clerks at
work.

'Now, Mr. Freydon,' said my guide, as he flung himself into a
revolving chair, and motioned me to another on the opposite side of
the table. 'We'll make it no more than five minutes, please, for I've
got a stack of letters to answer, and some men to see at eleven
sharp.'

And then I had a rather happy inspiration.

'Do you write your own letters, sir?' I asked.

'Eh? Oh, Lord, yes!' he said brusquely. 'I know some men dictate 'em
to clerks, to be done in copper-plate, an' all that. But, goodness, I
can write 'em myself quicker'n that! And we have to be mighty careful
to say just the right kind of thing in our letters, too. It makes a
difference.'

'Well, will you just try dictating one or two to me, sir, and let me
take them in shorthand. Then I would bring them to you when you have
seen the gentlemen at eleven.'

'Eh? Well, that's rather an idea. Let's have a shot. Here you are
then. Pencil? Right? Well: "Dear Mr. Gubbins, yours of 14th, received
with thanks." Got that? Yes; well, tell him--that is--"You are quite
mistaken, I assure you, about your butter having been held back till
the bottom was out of the market." Old fool's always grousing about
his rotten butter. You see, the fact is his butter is second or third
quality stuff, and he reads the quotations in the paper for the
primest, and kicks like a steer because he doesn't get the same, or a
penny more. Always threatening to change his agents, and I wish to God
he would; only, o' course, it doesn't do to tell 'em so. There's a lot
like Gubbins, an' one has to try an' sweeten 'em a bit once a week or
so. Yes! Well, where were we? Eh? That all right?'

'Yes, sir. "Yours faithfully," or "Yours truly," sir?'

'Oh, well, I always say: "'shuring you vour bes' 'tention, bleeve me,
yours faithfully, J. Canning and Son." It pl