KIPPS
a particular pride of intellect when writing his London orders.
"Ah! do y'r think you'll ever be able to write London orders?" he would say with honest pride to Kipps, waiting impatiently long after closing time to take these triumphs of commercial efficiency to post, and so end the interminable day.
Kipps shook his head, anxious for Mr. Shalford to get on.
"Now, here, f' example, I've written—see?—'1 piece 1 in. cott. blk, elas. 1/ or.' What do I mean by that or, eh?—d'ye know?"
Kipps promptly hadn't the faintest idea.
"And then, '2 ea. silk net as per patts. herewith': ea., eh?"
"Dunno, sir."
It was not Mr. Shalford's way to explain things. "Dear, dear! Pity you couldn't got some c'mercial education at your school. 'Stid of all this lit'ry stuff. Well, my boy, if y' don't 'ussel a bit y'll never write London orders, that's pretty plain. Jest stick stamps on all those letters, and mind y'r stick 'em right way up, and try and profit a little more by the opportunities your aunt and uncle have provided ye. Can't say what'll happen t'ye if ye don't."
And Kipps, tired, hungry, and belated, set about stamping with vigour and despatch.
“Lick the envelope," said Mr. Shalford, "lick the envelope," as though he grudged the youngster the postage-stamp gum. "It's the little things mount up," he would say; and, indeed, that was his philosophy of life—to bustle and save, always to bustle
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