"Well, George, and what did he say!"

"Oh! I've got ever so much to tell you, before I come to that part. The
office, you know, is in Falcon Court, Fleet Street; such a dismal place,
with the houses all crammed together, and a little space in front, not
more than large enough to turn a baker's bread-truck in. All the windows
are of ground glass, as if the people inside were too busy to see out,
or to be seen; and on every door there are lots of names of people who
have their offices there, and some of them are actually right up at the
top storeys of the houses. Well, I found out the name of Mr. Compton,
and I tapped at a door where 'Clerk's Office' was written. I think I
ought not to have tapped, but to have gone in, for somebody said rather
sharply, 'Come in,' and in I went. An old gentleman was standing beside
a sort of counter, with a lot of heavy books on it, and he asked me what
I wanted. I said I wanted to see Mr. Compton, and had got a letter for
him. He told me to sit down until Mr. Compton was disengaged, and then
he would see me."

"And what sort of an office was it, George? And who was the old
gentleman? The manager, I suppose!"

"I think he was, because he seemed to do as he liked, and all the clerks
talked in a whisper while he was there. I had to wait more than
half-an-hour, and I was able to look round and see all that was going
on. It is a large office, and there were ten clerks seated on
uncomfortable high stools, without backs, poring over books and papers.
I don't think I shall like those clerks, they stared at me so rudely,
and I felt so ashamed, because one looked hard at me, and then whispered
to another: and I believe they were saying something about my boots,
which you know, mother, are terribly down at heel, and so I put one foot