“When will he be here?”
“Between ten and half past.”
“I’d better wait,” said Philip.
“What are you wanting?” asked the office-boy.
Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner.
“Well, I’m going to work here if you have no objection.”
“Oh, you’re the new articled clerk? You’d better come in. Mr. Goodworthy’ll be here in a while.”
Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the officeboy — he was about the same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk — look at his foot. He flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round the room. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up.
