"Well now, you shall see," he said, taking my letter out of his
breast-pocket, "if you will just be good enough to see how you deal with
dates, sir. You dated your letter 1848," and the man roared with laughter.
"Yes, that was rather a mistake," I said, abashed--a distraction, a want
of thought; I admitted it.
"You see I must have a man who, as a matter of fact, makes no mistakes in
figures," said he. "I regret it, your handwriting is clear, and I like
your letter, too, but--"
I waited a while; this could not possibly be the man's final say. He
busied himself again with the bags.
"Yes, it was a pity," I said; "really an awful pity, but of course it
would not occur again; and, after all, surely this little error could not
have rendered me quite unfit to keep books?"
"No, I didn't say that," he answered, "but in the meantime it had so much
weight with me that I decided at once upon another man."
"So the place is filled?"
"Yes."
"A--h, well, then there's nothing more to be said about it!"
"No! I'm sorry, but--"
"Good-evening!" said I.
Fury welled up in me, blazing with brutal strength. I fetched my parcel
from the entry, set my teeth together, jostled against the peaceful folk
on the footpath, and never once asked their pardon.
As one man stopped and set me to rights rather sharply for my behaviour, I
turned round and screamed a single meaningless word in his ear, clenched
my fist right under his nose, and stumbled on, hardened by a blind rage
that I could not control.
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