At first the boy stood nervously in the centre of the room with his hat in his hand. The other occupants contemplated him with leisurely and impersonal aloofness. Presently it was borne in upon the boy that it would call for more courage to stand than to sit, so he sat. He took a chair, and poised himself upon its extreme verge, striving vainly to control the beatings of his heart. It seemed as though they must choke him. In a little while the undersized and wizened boy entered with the dignity of one who is accustomed to accept responsibility in great issues. “The Chief will see John Wilkins,” he said. John Wilkins, a muscular specimen of British youth, six feet high, rose and followed the emissary from high places with an air of slightly bored indifference. The boy pressed both hands over his beating heart. The emissary from high places entered again. He carried a newspaper that had pictures. “Care to look at _Punch_?” he said. He handed the newspaper that had pictures to the boy with an air of carefully defined abstraction which suggested that he viewed this amenity in the light of a duty. “Oh, t-t-thank you, t-thank you,” said the boy. “What’s the screw?” said a handsome, fair-haired fellow to the emissary from high places. “The _salary_ is ten shillings a week.” The emissary laid a delicate emphasis on the second word. “Oh, is it?” said the fair-haired fellow. “What’s the hours?” “Eight till seven,” said the wizened boy. “Half-day Saturday?” “On Saturday Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker close at six.” “Oh, do they! What ’oliday?” “During the first year there is no _holiday_,” said the wizened boy, speaking very slowly and distinctly, and laying a delicate emphasis on the last word. “After the first year the holiday, as a rule, is permanent.” The wizened boy retired from the room with a calmness that could be felt. “Uppish, ain’t he?” said the fair-haired fellow, speaking to nobody in particular. The boy turned over the pages of the newspaper. This was of a type he had never seen before. The pictures bewildered him. He turned them upside down to see if he could understand them better. He then concluded that his own mental and moral disorganization had become embodied, and the newspaper fluttered from his hands. The beating of his heart was choking him. The emissary from high places entered again. “The Chief will see Calverley Brown.” The fair-haired fellow stood up and followed the emissary with a precise imitation of the gait and manner of his predecessor. The emissary entered again and picked up the newspaper from the carpet. His chin was poised at a supercilious angle. “When one has no use for _Punch_,” he said with a slowness that made each word valuable, “it is considered the thing to place it on the table, or to offer it to one’s friends.” The boy’s pale cheeks grew vivid, for the almost exaggerated development of his courtesy enabled him to appreciate that this reproof was merited.