"Male and female created He them," said Dunkerley ticking his way down the page. "Which (tick, tick) was damned hard (tick, tick) on assistant masters."
He closed the book with a snap and flung it on the floor behind him. "You're lucky," he said. "I did think I should be first to get out of this scandalising hole. You're lucky. It's always acting down here. Running on parents and guardians round every corner. That's what I object to in life in the country: it's so confoundedly artificial, I shall take jolly good care I get out of it just as soon as ever I can. You bet!"
"And work those patents?"
"Rather, my boy. Yes. Work those patents. The Patent Square Top Bottle! Lord! Once let me get to London. . . ."
"I think I shall have a shot at London," said Lewisham.
And then the experienced Dunkerley, being one of the kindest young men alive, forgot certain private ambitions of his own—he cherished dreams of amazing patents—and bethought him of agents. He proceeded to give a list of these necessary helpers of the assistant master at the gangway—Orellana Gabbitas, The Lancaster Gate Agency, and the rest of them. He knew them all—intimately. He had been a "nix" eight years. "Of course that Kensing-
