But Mr. Bartley was not there.  The large office was at present occupied by his clerks; one of these was Leonard Monckton, a pale young man with dark hair, a nose like a hawk, and thin lips.  The other was quite a young fellow, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and an open countenance.  “Many a hard rub puts a point on a man.”  So Hope resolved at once to say nothing to that pale clerk so like a kite, but to interest the open countenance in him and his hungry child.

There were two approaches to the large office.  One, to Hope’s right, through a door and a lobby.  This was seldom used except by the habitues of the place.  The other was to Hope’s left, through a very small office, generally occupied by an inferior clerk, who kept an eye upon the work outside.  However, this office had also a small window looking inward; this opened like a door when the man had anything to say to Mr. Bartley or the clerks in the large office.

William Hope entered this outer office, and found it empty.  The clerk happened to be in the yard.  Then he opened the inner door and looked in on the two clerks, pale and haggard, and apprehensive of a repulse.  He addressed himself to the one nearest him; it was the one whose face had attracted him.

“Sir, can I see Mr. Bartley?”

The young fellow glanced over the visitor’s worn garments and dusty shoes, and said, dryly, “Hum! if it is for charity, this is the wrong shop.”

“I want no charity,” said Hope, with a sigh; “I want employment.  But I do want it very badly; my poor little girl and I are starving.”

“Then that is a shame,” said the young fellow, warmly.  “Why, you are a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know for that,” said Hope.  “But I am an educated man, and I could do the whole business of this place.  But you see I am down in the world.”

“You look like it,” said the clerk, bluntly.  “But don’t you be so green as to tell old Bartley that, or you are done for.  No, no; I’ll show you how to get in here.  Wait till half past one.  He lunches at one, and he isn’t quite such a brute after luncheon.  Then you come in like Julius Caesar, and brag like blazes, and offer him twenty pounds’ worth of industry and ability, and above all arithmetic, and he will say he has no opening (and that is a lie), and offer you fifteen shillings, perhaps.”

“If he does, I’ll jump at it,” said Hope, eagerly.  “But whether I succeed with him or not, take my child’s blessing and my own.”

His voice faltered, and Bolton, with a young man’s uneasiness under sentiment, stopped him.  “Oh, come, old fellow, bother all that!  Why, we are all stumped in turn.”  Then he began to chase a solitary coin into a corner of his waistcoat pocket.  “Look here, I’ll lend you a shilling—­pay me next week—­it will buy the kid a breakfast.  I wish I had more, but I want the other for luncheon.  I haven’t drawn my screw yet.  It is due at twelve.”