ldly replied I. "I got a letter."

"What's that to do with it? I got a letter to-day, didn't I, Wallop, to
tell me my washerwoman had changed her address. But that's no reason
for my coming here."

This was perfectly sound reasoning. So I amended my explanation.

"I got a letter from Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.--"

"_Messrs_. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, if you please," put in the
clerk.

"I beg your pardon," said I, "from Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and
Company, telling me to be here at 10:15."

"Oh. Why didn't you say that before? What's the use of prevaricating
when it's just as easy to tell the truth straight out, eh? What's the
time now?"

"Twenty past," said I, looking at the clock.

"And you call that punctual? That's a nice beginning, anyhow. What's
your name?"

"Batchelor," said I.

This again appeared to afford amusement to the company in general; and
one or two jokes at the expense of my name were forthcoming, which I
bore with as good a grace as I could.

At length it pleased the clerk who had cross-examined me to get off his
stool, and after poking the fire and consulting the directory, and
skirmishing pleasantly with a fellow-clerk for a minute or two, to go to
the door of the inner-room and knock there.

"Come in," I heard a voice answer, and the clerk entered.

He emerged again in a moment and beckoned to me. Now was the time! I
braced myself up to the ordeal, and not heeding the facetious dig in the
ribs which the clerk gave me in passing, I put on my best face, and
entered the awful presence.

Two gentlemen sat facing one another at the table, one of them old, the
other middle-aged. These I instantly guessed to be Messrs. Merrett and
Barnacle. Mr Barnacle, the junior partner, who had a sharp voice and a
stern face, undertook my examination, Mr Merrett only coming in
occasionally with some mild observation.

"You are Batchelor," said Mr Barnacle, when I had entered and carefully
closed the door behind me. I noticed he held in his hand my original
letter of application. "You are Frederick Batchelor. How is it you are
late?"

"I'm sorry, sir," faltered I, at this rather discouraging beginning,
"but--"

And here I stuck. What was the use of trying to explain what still
remained the fact?

Mr Barnacle eyed me keenly, and continued, "You are fourteen, you say,
have just left school, and are good at arithmetic. What school were you
at?"

"Stonebridge House,