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by chance the label had been left on. When he arrived he
knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at
his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed
he was too early. He went away and ten minutes later re-
turned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face,
and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for Mr.
Herbert Carter. He had not come yet.
‘When will he be here?’
‘Between ten and half past.’
‘I’d better wait,’ said Philip.
‘What are you wanting?’ asked the office-boy.
Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose
manner.
‘Well, I’m going to work here if you have no objection.’
‘Oh, you’re the new articled clerk? You’d better come in.
Mr. Goodworthy’ll be here in a while.’
Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy—he
was about the same age as Philip and called himself a ju-
nior clerk—look at his foot. He flushed and, sitting down,
hid it behind the other. He looked round the room. It was
dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were
three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over
the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight.
Presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced
at Philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (Phil-
ip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle
blew, and Macdougal got up.
‘Mr. Goodworthy’s come. He’s the managing clerk. Shall
I tell him you’re here?’

Of Human Bondage