Master of an endowed school, perhaps!" said Mr. Blendershin's chief assistant. "Lord!—why not a bishopric? I say,"—as Mr. Blendershin entered smoking an assertive cigar—"one and twenty, no degree, no games, two years' experience as junior—wants a headmastership of an endowed school!" He spoke so loudly that it was inevitable the selection of clients in the waiting-room should hear, and he pointed with his pen.
"Look here!" said Lewisham hotly; "if I knew the ways of the market I shouldn't come to you."
Mr. Blendershin stared at Lewisham for a moment. "What's he done in the way of certificates?" asked Mr. Blendershin of the assistant.
The assistant read a list of 'ologies and 'ographies. "Fifty-resident," said Mr. Blendershin concisely—"that's your figure. Sixty, if you're lucky."
"What?" said Mr. Lewisham.
"Not enough for you?"
"Not nearly."
"You can get a Cambridge graduate for eighty resident—and grateful," said Mr. Blendershin.
"But I don't want a resident post," said Lewisham.
"Precious few non-resident shops," said Mr. Blendershin. "Precious few. They want you for dormitory supervision—and they're afraid of your taking pups outside."
