"Look here!" said Lewisham hotly; "if I knew the ways of the market I shouldn't come to you."
Mr. Blendershin stared at Lewisham for a moment. "What's he done in the way of certificates?" asked Mr. Blendershin of the assistant.
The assistant read a list of 'ologies and 'ographies. "Fifty resident," said Mr. Blendershin concisely—"that's your figure. Sixty, if you're lucky."
"What?" said Mr. Lewisham.
"Not enough for you?"
"Not nearly."
"You can get a Cambridge graduate for eighty resident—and grateful," said Mr. Blendershin.
"But I don't want a resident post," said Lewisham.
"Precious few non-resident shops," said Mr. Blendershin. "Precious few. They want you for dormitory supervision—and they're afraid of your taking pups outside."
"Not married by any chance?" said the assistant suddenly, after an attentive study of Lewisham's face.
"Well—er." Lewisham met Mr. Blendershin's eye. "Yes," he said.
The assistant was briefly unprintable. "Lord! you'll have to keep that dark," said Mr. Blendershin. "But you have got a tough bit of hoeing before you. If I was you I'd go on and get my degree now you're so near it. You'll stand a better chance."
Pause.
"The fact is," said Lewisham slowly and looking at his boot toes, "I must be doing something while I am getting my degree."
The assistant, whistled softly.
"Might get you a visiting job, perhaps," said Mr. Blendershin speculatively. "Just read me those items again, Binks," He listened attentively. "Objects to religious teaching!—Eh?" He stopped the reading by a gesture, "That's nonsense. You can't have everything, you know. Scratch that out. You won't get a place in any middle-class school in England if you object to religious teaching. It's the mothers—bless 'em! Say nothing about it. Don't believe—who does? There's hundreds like you, you know—hundreds. Parsons—all sorts. Say nothing about it—"
"But if I'm asked?"
"Church of England. Every man in this country who has not dissented belongs to the Church of England. It'll be hard enough to get you anything without that."
"But—" said Mr. Lewisham. "It's lying."
"Legal fiction," said Mr. Blendershin. "Everyone understands. If you don't do that, my dear chap, we can't do anything for you. It's Journalism, or London docks. Well, considering your experience,—say docks."
Lewisham's face flushed irregularly. He did not answer. He scowled and tugged at the still by no means ample moustache.
"Compromise, you know," said Mr. Blendershin, watching him kindly. "Compromise."
For the first time in his life Lewisham faced the necessity of telling a lie in cold blood. He glissaded from, the austere altitudes of his self-respect, and his next words were already disingenuous.
"I won't promise to tell lies if I'm asked," he said aloud. "I can't do that."
"Scratch it out," said Blendershin to the clerk. "You needn't mention it. Then you don't say you can teach drawing."
"I can't," said Lewisham.
"You just give out the copies," said Blendershin, "and take care they don't see you draw, you know."
"But that's not teaching drawing—"
"It's what's understood by it in this country," said Blendershin. "Don't you go corrupting your mind with pedagogueries. They're the ruin of assistants. Put down drawing. Then there's shorthand—"
"Here, I say!" said Lewisham.
"There's shorthand, French, book-keeping, commercial geography, land measuring—"
"But I can't teach any of those things!"
"Look here," said Blendershin, and paused. "Has your wife or you a private income?"
"No," said Lewisham.
"Well?"
A pause of further moral descent, and a whack against an obstacle.
"But they will find me out," said Lewisham.
Blendershin smiled. "It's not so much ability as willingness to teach, you know. And they won't find you out. The sort of schoolmaster we deal with can't find anything out. He can't teach any of these things himself—and consequently he doesn't believe they can be taught. Talk to him of pedagogics and he talks of practical experience. But he puts 'em on his prospectus, you know, and he wants 'em on his time-table. Some of these subjects—There's commercial geography, for instance. What is commercial geography?"
"Barilla," said the assistant, biting the end of his pen, and added pensively, "and blethers."
"Fad," said Blendershin, "Just fad. Newspapers talk rot about commercial education, Duke of Devonshire catches on and talks ditto—pretends he thought it himself—much he cares—parents get hold of it—schoolmasters obliged to put something down, consequently assistants must. And that's the end of the matter!"
"All right," said Lewisham, catching his breath in a faint sob of shame, "Stick 'em down. But mind—a non-resident place."
"Well," said Blendershin, "your science may pull you through. But I tell you it's hard. Some grant-earning grammar school may want that. And that's about all, I think. Make a note of the address…."
The assistant made a noise, something between a whistle and the word "Fee." Blendershin glanced at Lewisham and nodded doubtfully.
"Fee for booking," said the assistant; "half a crown, postage—in advance—half a crown."
But Lewisham remembered certain advice Dunkerley had given him in the old Whortley days. He hesitated. "No," he said. "I don't pay that. If you get me anything there's the commission—if you don't—"
"We lose," supplied the assistant.
"And you ought to," said Lewisham. "It's a fair game."
"Living in London?" asked Blendershin.
"Yes," said the clerk.
"That's all right," said Mr. Blendershin. "We won't say anything about the postage in that case. Of course it's the off season, and you mustn't expect anything at present very much. Sometimes there's a shift or so at Easter…. There's nothing more…. Afternoon. Anyone else, Binks?"
Messrs. Maskelyne, Smith, and Thrums did a higher class of work than Blendershin, whose specialities were lower class private establishments and the cheaper sort of endowed schools. Indeed, so superior were Maskelyne, Smith, and Thrums that they enraged Lewisham by refusing at first to put him on their books. He was interviewed briefly by a young man dressed and speaking with offensive precision, whose eye adhered rigidly to the waterproof collar throughout the interview.
"Hardly our line," he said, and pushed Lewisham a form to fill up. "Mostly upper class and good preparatory schools here, you know."
As Lewisham filled up the form with his multitudinous "'ologies" and "'ographies," a youth of ducal appearance entered and greeted the precise young man in a friendly way. Lewisham, bending down to write, perceived that this professional rival wore a very long frock coat, patent leather boots, and the most beautiful grey trousers. His conceptions of competition enlarged. The precise young man by a motion of his eyes directed the newcomer's attention to Lewisham's waterproof collar, and was answered by raised eyebrows and a faint tightening of the mouth. "That bounder at Castleford has answered me," said the new-comer in a fine rich voice. "Is he any bally good?"
When the bounder at Castleford had been discussed Lewisham presented his paper, and the precise young man with his eye still fixed on the waterproof collar took the document in the manner of one who reaches across a gulf. "I doubt if we shall be able to do anything for you," he said reassuringly. "But an English mastership may chance to be vacant. Science doesn't count for much in our sort of schools, you know. Classics and good games—that's our sort of thing."