“I put up with him. Nobody else would. The poor fellow must live.”
I expressed admiration at Mr. Lott's humanity.
“You don't mind work? You're not one of those good-for-nothings who sleep all day and wake up when it's time to go home?”
I assured him that in whatever else I might fail I could promise him industry.
“With some of them,” complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of bitterness, “it's nothing but play, girls, gadding about the streets. Work, business—oh, no. I may go bankrupt; my wife and children may go into the workhouse. No thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, clothes them. How much salary do you want?”
I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble Brother; it would be necessary to be moderate in one's demands. “Five-and-twenty shillings a week,” I suggested.
He repeated the figure in a scream. “Five-and-twenty shillings for writing like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything about the business. Five-and-twenty!—Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you twelve.”
“But I can't live on twelve,” I explained.
“Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how to live. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch cheese and a pint of bitter.”
His recital made my mouth water.