The two days which followed my eventful expedition to London were among
the most anxious I ever spent. Young and unsophisticated as I was, I
knew quite enough of my own affairs to feel that a crisis in my life had
been reached, and that a great deal, nay, everything, depended on how my
application for Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's situation turned out.
If I succeeded there, I should have made a start in life--modest enough,
truly, but a start all the same--and who was to say whether from the
bottom of the ladder I might not some day and somehow get to the top?
But if I missed, I knew full well my uncle would take my affairs into
his own hands, and probably put me to work which would be distasteful,
and in which I should be miserable. So you see, reader, I had a good
deal staked on my little venture.
The miserable thing was that I might never hear at all from the firm,
but go on hoping against hope, day after day, in a suspense which would
be worse than knowing straight off that I had failed. However, I kept
up appearances before my uncle, for I didn't want him to think it was no
use waiting a little before he took me in hand himself. I spent several
hours a day working up my arithmetic, making out imaginary invoices
against every imaginable person, and generally preparing myself for
office work. And the rest of my time I spent in cogitation and
speculation as to my future destiny, and the merits and demerits of
those enviable mortals, Doubleday, Wallop, and Crow, of the Export
Department of Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.
On Tuesday morning two letters came for me with the London postmark, one
in Jack Smith's well-remembered handwriting, the other with the awful
initials, "M., B., and Company," on the seal.