"Well, I have got to see one or two others. We will write and let you know," was the conclusion of each interview, and the end, as far as I was concerned, of the enterprise.
My few pounds, guard them how I would, were dwindling rapidly.
Looking back, it is easy enough to regard one's early struggles from a humorous point of view. One knows the story, it all ended happily.
But at the time there is no means of telling whether one's biography is going to be comedy or tragedy. There were moments when I felt confident it was going to be the latter. Occasionally, when one is feeling well, it is not unpleasant to contemplate with pathetic sympathy one's own death-bed. One thinks of the friends and relations who at last will understand and regret one, be sorry they had not behaved themselves better. But myself, there was no one to regret. I felt very small, very helpless. The world was big. I feared it might walk over me, trample me down, never seeing me. I seemed unable to attract its attention.
One morning I found waiting for me at the Reading Room another of the usual missives. It ran: "Will Mr. P. Kelver call at the above address to-morrow morning between ten-thirty and eleven. The paper was headed: "Lott and Co., Indian Commission Agents, Aldersgate Street." Without much hope I returned to my lodgings, changed my clothes, donned my silk hat, took my one pair of gloves, drew its silk case over my holey umbrella; and so equipped for fight with Fate made my way to Aldersgate Street. For a quarter of an hour or so, being too soon, I walked up and down the pavement outside the house, gazing at the second-floor windows, behind which, so the door-plate had informed me, were the offices of Lott & Co. I could not recall their advertisement, nor my reply to it. The firm was evidently not in a very flourishing condition. I wondered idly what salary they would offer. For a moment I dreamt of a Cheeryble Brother asking me kindly if I thought I could do with thirty shillings a week as a beginning; but the next I recalled my usual fate, and considered whether it was even worth while to climb the stairs, go through what to me was a painful ordeal, merely to be impressed again with the sense of my own worthlessness.
A fine rain began to fall. I did not wish to unroll my umbrella, yet felt nervous for my hat. It was five minutes to the half hour.
Listlessly I crossed the road and mounted the bare stairs to the second floor. Two doors faced me, one marked "Private." I tapped lightly at the second. Not hearing any response, after a second or two I tapped again. A sound reached me, but it was unintelligible. I knocked yet again, still louder. This time I heard a reply in a shrill, plaintive tone:
"Oh, do come in."
The tone was one of pathetic entreaty. I turned the handle and entered. It was a small room, dimly lighted by a dirty window, the bottom half of which was rendered opaque by tissue paper pasted to its panes. The place suggested a village shop rather than an office.
Pots of jam, jars of pickles, bottles of wine, biscuit tins, parcels of drapery, boxes of candles, bars of soap, boots, packets of stationery, boxes of cigars, tinned provisions, guns, cartridges--things sufficient to furnish a desert island littered every available corner. At a small desk under the window sat a youth with a remarkably small body and a remarkably large head; so disproportionate were the two I should hardly have been surprised had he put up his hands and taken it off. Half in the room and half out, I paused.
"Is this Lott & Co.?" I enquired.
"No," he answered; "it's a room." One eye was fixed upon me, dull and glassy; it never blinked, it never wavered. With the help of the other he continued his writing.
"I mean," I explained, coming entirely into the room, "are these the offices of Lott & Co.?"
"It's one of them," he replied; "the back one. If you're really anxious for a job, you can shut the door."
I complied with his suggestion, and then announced that I was Mr. Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver.
"Minikin's my name," he returned, "Sylvanus Minikin. You don't happen by any chance to know what you've come for, I suppose?"
Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way among the goods that covered the floor and pull his ears for him. From his grave and massive face, he might, for all I knew, be the head clerk.
"I have called to see Mr. Lott," I replied, with dignity; "I have an appointment." I produced the letter from my pocket, and leaning across a sewing-machine, I handed it to him for his inspection.
Having read it, he suddenly took from its socket the eye with which he had been hitherto regarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon his pocket handkerchief, turned upon me his other. Having satisfied himself, he handed me back my letter.
"Want my advice?" he asked.
I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the affirmative.
"Hook it," was his curt counsel.
"Why?" I asked. "Isn't he a good employer?"
Replacing his glass eye, he turned again to his work. "If employment is what you want," answered Mr. Minikin, "you'll get it. Best employer in London. He'll keep you going for twenty-four hours a day, and then offer you overtime at half salary."
"I must get something to do," I confessed.
"Sit down then," suggested Mr. Minikin. "Rest while you can."
I took the chair; it was the only chair in the room, with the exception of the one Minikin was sitting on.
"Apart from his being a bit of a driver," I asked, "what sort of a man is he? Is he pleasant?"
"Never saw him put out but once," answered Minikin.
It sounded well. "When was that?" I asked.
"All the time I've known him."
My spirits continued to sink. Had I been left alone with Minikin much longer, I might have ended by following his advice, "hooking it" before Mr. Lott arrived. But the next moment I heard the other door open, and some one entered the private office. Then the bell rang, and Minikin disappeared, leaving the communicating door ajar behind him. The conversation that I overheard was as follows:
"Why isn't Mr. Skeat here?"
"Because he hasn't come."
