Part 2 (1/2)

Moxton's door was a green one, with a bra.s.s knocker and a bra.s.s plate, both of which ornaments, owing to verdigris, were anything but ornamental. The plate was almost useless, being nearly illegible, but the knocker was still fit for duty. The street was narrow--as Ned observed with a feeling of deep depression--and the house to which the green door belonged, besides being dirty, retreated a little, as if it were ashamed of itself.

On the knocker being applied, the green door was opened by a disagreeable-looking old woman, who answered to the question, ”Is Mr Moxton in?” with a short ”Yes,” and, without farther remark, ushered our hero into a very dingy and particularly small office, which, owing to the insufficient quant.i.ty of daylight that struggled through the dirty little windows, required to be lighted with gas. Ned felt, so to speak, like a thermometer which was falling rapidly.

”Can I see Mr Moxton?” he inquired of a small dishevelled clerk, who sat on a tall stool behind a high desk, engaged in writing his name in every imaginable form on a sheet of note paper.

The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner apartment, and resumed his occupation.

Ned tapped at the door indicated.

”Come in,” cried a stern voice.

Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower. On entering, he beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with his back to the fire.

Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face. Thermometrically speaking, he fell to the freezing-point.

”You are young Sinton, I suppose. You've come later than I expected.”

Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding the house.

”Umph! Your uncle tells me that you're a sharp fellow, and write a good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?”

”No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible.”

”At least!” said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant for smile, perhaps for a grin. ”Why, that's the _most_ you could say of it. No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be bad that _is_ legible. Have you studied law?”

”No, sir, I have not.”

”Umph! you're too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?”

”Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day.”

”Well, you may come here on Monday, and I'll speak to you again, and see what you can do. I'm too busy just now. Good-morning.”

Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the door-handle.

”Excuse me, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, ”may I ask what room I shall occupy, if--if--I come to work here?”

Mr Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, ”There.” Ned fell to twenty below the freezing-point.

”And pray, sir,” he continued, ”may I ask what are office-hours?”

”From nine a.m. till nine p.m., with an interval for meals,” said Mr Moxton, sharply; ”but we usually continue at work till eleven at night, sometimes later. Good-morning.”

Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he pa.s.sed through the office.

It was a hard struggle, a very hard struggle, but he recalled to mind all that his uncle had ever done for him, and the love he bore him, and manfully resolved to cast California behind his back for ever, and become a lawyer.

Meanwhile Mr s.h.i.+rley received a visit from a very peculiar personage.

He was still seated in his arm-chair pondering his nephew's prospects when this personage entered the room, hat in hand--the hat was a round straw one--and cried heartily, ”Good day, kinsman.”

”Ha! Captain Bunting, how are ye? Glad to see you, old fellow,”