"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.
