In any case he would buy him a
lunch, so that Wyatt would extract at least some profit from his
visit. He said that he hoped something could be managed. It was a pity
that a boy accustomed to shoot cats should be condemned for the rest
of his life to shoot nothing more exciting than his cuffs.
Wyatt's letter was longer. It might have been published under the
title "My First Day in a Bank, by a Beginner." His advent had
apparently caused little sensation. He had first had a brief
conversation with the manager, which had run as follows:
"Mr. Wyatt?"
"Yes, sir."
"H'm ... Sportsman?"
"Yes, sir."
"Cricketer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Play football?"
"Yes, sir."
"H'm ... Racquets?"
"Yes, sir."
"Everything?"
"Yes, sir."
"H'm ... Well, you won't get any more of it now."
After which a Mr. Blenkinsop had led him up to a vast ledger, in which
he was to inscribe the addresses of all out-going letters. These
letters he would then stamp, and subsequently take in bundles to the
post office. Once a week he would be required to buy stamps. "If I
were one of those Napoleons of Finance," wrote Wyatt, "I should cook
the accounts, I suppose, and embezzle stamps to an incredible amount.
But it doesn't seem in my line. I'm afraid I wasn't cut out for a
business career. Still, I have stamped this letter at the expense
of the office, and entered it up under the heading 'Sundries,' which
is a sort of start.
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