“There’s a hair-brush,” he said, “if you’d like to brush your hair.” The applicant thanked him inarticulately. As if he were in a dream he began to manipulate the hair-brush. All this was not in the programme. “The Chief,” said the wizened boy impressively, “is Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.). Be careful of your aitches. Articulate your words correctly. If your references are all right you stand an outsider’s chance. The others were a scratch lot.” Having uttered these cabalistic remarks, the emissary led the way up a steep flight of stairs. The applicant followed dizzily. His eyes were growing dark. He could scarcely see. “Courage, Achilles,” he muttered faintly as he came to the landing at the top. The emissary gave a smart, resounding knock upon a closed door. He then opened it briskly and noiselessly, and in a similar fashion stepped within. “William Jordan, Junior,” he said in his clear voice, and with his great aplomb of manner. At the same moment he gave the boy a little push into the room and closed the door upon him. The boy stood upon the threshold. He could see nothing. There was a curious singing in his ears. All about him was quite dark. “Good-morning,” said a deep, slow, pleasant voice. It boomed like a bell. The boy did not speak, but bowed very low, yet he was not in the least conscious that he did so. This act, however, restored to him the sense of vision. He could see; although an intolerable noise of singing was still in his ears. A somewhat ponderous, double-chinned, exceedingly handsome and prosperous gentleman was standing with the back of his ample form to the fire. The skirts of his frock-coat were outspread, and two white and rotund hands held them apart. He was dressed with a care that was almost religious. His hair was groomed immaculately; his short side-whiskers had been treated by the hand of a master. He wore a glass in the right eye. Everything about him, even the pearl which gave distinction and rigidity to his necktie, was a testimonial to his status. And upon the countenance of this gentleman was a simper of such an urbane expansiveness, that its function apparently was to be antiseptic to a dignity which, without this precaution, must have proved too much for human nature’s daily food. “You wrote a nice letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “a very nice letter. Did you write it without aid?” “Y-y-yes, s-sir,” said the boy. He felt a thrill of joy to know that the power of speech had returned. “A most creditable letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with the benign purr of an unusually well-nurtured feline. “A little unconventional, perhaps--but no matter. May I ask where you were educated?” “I--I--I d-don’t t-think I k-know, sir,” the boy stammered. This question was not in the programme.