“I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross the line, was he not?” “Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. You would more readily get the two hours’ daily leave of absence from a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would from where they keep only one.” “If I like to take it!” repeated Arthur. “Will they like to take me? That’s the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I’ll see about it at once.” He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and Dove’s offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite of himself, with the new project. The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur--so prone are we to estimate time by our own feelings--and his voluntary, afterwards, was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove. Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing at a desk when he entered. “Can I see Mr. Dove?” he inquired. The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the desk. “Which of them?” asked he. “Either,” replied Arthur. “Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not matter.” “Mr. Dove’s out, and Mr. Alfred Dove’s not at home,” was the response. “You’ll have to wait, or to call again.” He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult to turn in it, and there he stated his business. “You are a son of Mr. Channing’s, I believe,” said Mr. Dove. He spoke morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance--a sure index of the mind, in him, as in others. “Was it you who figured in the proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?” You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur’s face. He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely. “It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so.”