“我不得不去看广告找工作了。”
这天早晨，他就一直想着这件事，这个念头扼杀了他的全部快乐，甚至生活，他的心乱成一团。
后来，到十点钟，他出了门。他被认为是一个古怪而安静的孩子。走在小镇洒满阳光的小街上，觉得仿佛他遇见的所有人都悄悄地议论：他要去合作社阅览室 看报纸找工作了，他找不到工作的，我想他是靠母亲活着。于是，他轻手轻脚地踏上合作社布店后面的石阶，往阅览室看了看。通常，里面只有一、两个人，不是老人，就是无用的家伙，要不就是靠“互助会”生活的矿工。他进去了，当他们抬起头来看他时，他立刻一副畏畏缩缩、受委屈的样子。他坐在桌前，假装浏览新闻，他知道他们会这样想：一个十三岁的孩子在阅览室里会干什么？他心里很别扭。
他沉思着朝窗外望去，对面伸出花园的旧红墙，墙头满是大朵大朵的葵花，花儿欢快地俯视着拿着东西匆匆赶回家去做饭的女人们；山谷里长满谷物，在阳光下闪闪发光，田野里有两座煤矿，白色水蒸汽慢慢往空中升起。远处的小山上，是安娜利森林，幽暗而神秘。他的心往下沉，要被派去当苦力了。他心爱的家乡的自由生活就要结束，他已经成为工业社会的囚犯。
酿酒商的货车从凯斯顿驶过来了，车上装着巨大的酒桶，一边四个，就像绽开的豆荚上的豆子。赶车人高高地坐在车上，沉重地坐在座里摇摇晃晃。这活在保罗眼里一点也不敢轻视。他那又圆又小弹壳般的脑袋上的头发，在太阳下面晒得几乎发白，那粗壮的红胳膊懒懒地耷拉在麻布围裙上摇来摆去，白色的汗毛闪闪发光，红红的睑发着光，在阳光下睡眼惺松。几匹棕色的漂亮的马，自觉地跑着，倒更像这个场面的主人了。
保罗希望自己是个傻瓜。“ 我希望，”他心里暗自思量，“我倒不如像他一样肥胖，做一只太阳下的狗；我希望我是一头猪，或是一个给酿酒商赶车的车夫。”
最后，阅览室终于空了。他匆匆在一片小纸上抄下了一条广告，又抄了一条。然后溜了出来，松了一口气。母亲还得看看他抄写来的东西。
“是的，”她说，“你应该试试。”
威廉曾经用规范的商业用语写了一封求职信，保罗把信略加修改，抄了一遍。这个孩子的书法很糟糕，所以样样在行的威廉看到他的字，不由得烦燥起来。
这个当哥哥的变得爱炫耀自己了。他发现在伦敦自己可以结交比贝斯伍德的朋友地位高得多的人，办公室里的某些办事员已经学过法律，或多或少地当过一段时间的见习生。威廉性格开朗，不论去哪都广交朋友。不久，他就拜访出入一些人家，而这些要人是在贝斯伍德，对那些无法高攀的银行经理都有些看不起，对教区长也不过冷淡地拜访一下而已。因此他开始幻想他已经成为一个大人物了，实际上，他对于自己如此轻易就成为一个绅士阶层的人，也相当意外。
他似乎十分满足，母亲也很高兴。只是他在沃尔刹斯托的生活太枯燥乏味了。现在这个年轻人的信中似乎涌动着一种兴奋的激情，这种生活变化，弄得他心神不定，好象完全失去了自己，随着这种新生活的潮流，轻浮地来回旋转。母亲为他而焦虑。她也已感到他已经迷失了自己，他去跳舞，去戏院，在小河上划船，跟朋友们一起外出，不过她也知道他在玩乐完后，会坐在冰冷的卧室里，刻苦地学习拉丁文，因为他想在办公室出人头地，还想在法律界尽所能地闯出一番天地。现在，他不再寄钱给母亲了。自己所有的钱全作为生活用度。而她，也不想要钱，除非偶尔，她手头确实很紧，十先令也能帮她大忙时，她仍然梦到威廉，梦到他在为她帮忙做主。但她从来不肯承认因为他，她的心会多么焦急，多么沉重。
他也谈了很多关于他在舞会上认识的一个女孩，年轻漂亮，肤色浅黑，有一大批追求者的。
“我想知道是否你会去追她，我的孩子。”他的母亲给他回信说，“你不要这样干，除非看见别人在追求她，你 和很多人在一起的时候，你很安全，也很得意。但是，要小心谨慎，如果你独自一个人情场胜利时，感觉一下是什么样的。”
威廉不在意这些话，继续追求。他带姑娘去河边划船。“如果你看到她，妈妈，你就会明白我的感情了。她身材高大，文雅端庄，皮肤是纯净的透明的橄榄色，头发乌黑发亮，还有那一双灰色的眼睛——明亮、一副嘲弄的神情，有如黑夜中映在水面的星星灯火。直到你见到她，你才不会见笑你儿子了。她的衣服也比得过伦敦的任何一个女人。我告诉你，如果她陪着你儿子走在皮卡迪利街上，他不会不昂首挺胸的。”
莫瑞尔太太思前想后，也许与儿子在皮卡迪利散步的，只是身材窈窕，衣着漂亮的女人，而不是一个和他十分亲密的女人。不过，她用她模棱两可的方式向 他祝贺。有时，当她俯身站在洗衣盆边时，又想起儿子的事来，仿佛看见儿子娶了一个挥霍无度优雅漂亮的妻于，挣那几个钱，在郊区一间小屋子里苦苦地过着日子。“唉，”她对自己说，“ 我就像一个傻子——自寻烦恼。”尽管这样，她心底的那块忧虑始终伴随着她，害怕威廉自作主张干错了事。
不久，保罗被托马斯·乔丹这个住在诺丁汉，斯帕尼尔街21号的外科医疗器械厂老板约见。莫瑞尔太太高兴极了。
“嘿，你看！”她喊道，眼里发着光，“你只写了四封信，而第三封信就得到回音。你很幸运，孩子，我以前常说你很幸运。”
保罗看着画在乔丹信纸上的图案：一条木头做的腿套着弹力袜子以及一些别的机械。他觉得手足无措。 他从来不知道有这种弹力袜子，他似乎感受到了这个商业社会价值准则，不讲人情，他害怕这些。更可怕的是，木头腿的买卖。
星期二那天，母子俩很早就出发了。这时是八月份，天气火一般地热。保罗走着，心里仿佛有什么东西拧着。他宁愿体力上多受点苦，也不愿受这莫名其妙的折腾，当着陌生人的面、让别入决定是否录用你。不过，他还是和母亲随口聊着。他从没对她坦白地说过他碰到这样苦闷的事。她只能猜 到一些。这天，她快乐极了，简直像热恋中的情人。她站在贝斯伍德售票处的窗户准备买票，保罗看着她从钱包里掏钱，当他看到那双戴着黑色羊皮旧手套的手从破钱包里掏出银币时，保罗因对母亲的爱恋而产生强烈的痛楚。
她又激动又快活。看着她当着其他旅客的面高声说话，他感到十分难堪。
“看那些愚蠢的母牛，”她 说，“正跑着圈子，好象她以为自己在马戏团里。”
“很可能有一只牛虹叮了。”他低低地说。
“一个什么？”她轻快地问，一点不觉得难为情。
两人沉思了一阵，坐在她对面总使他非常敏感，突然，他们的目光相遇了，她对他微笑了一下——一个难得的、亲切的笑容，充满明快和爱意。然后他们俩都朝窗外望去。
十六英里的铁路旅程慢慢地过去了。母子俩走到车站街上，有一种情人们一起冒险的激动。到了卡林顿大街上，他们停下来扶着栏杆，看着下面运河里的驳船。
“真像威尼斯。”他说，看着工厂高墙之下水面上的阳光。
“也许像吧。”她微笑着回答。
他们非常兴奋地去逛那些商店。
“喂，看那件衬衣，”她说，“安妮穿着正合适，对吗？而且只卖一镑十一先令三便士，便宜吧？”
“还是刺绣的呢。”他说。
“是啊。”
他们时间充裕，因此一点不急。他们觉得这个镇十分新奇陌生。但是这个男孩忧心忡忡。他一想到跟托马斯·乔丹见面就害怕。
圣彼得教堂的大钟快十一点时，他们来到一条通向城堡的狭窄的街上。这条街阴暗破旧，两旁是低矮的店铺和几扇饰有黄铜门环的深绿色大门，还有伸向人行道的黄赭石台阶。接着，又是一家商店，那个小窗口看起来像一只狡猾的半睁着的眼睛。母子俩小心翼翼地 走着、寻找着“乔丹父子”的挂牌。这真像在某地野外狩猎一样，兴奋激动极了。
突然，他们发现一座高大黑暗的牌楼，挂着好几家商店招牌，托马斯·乔丹的就在其中。
“在这儿！”莫瑞尔太太说，“但到底在哪边呢？”
他们四周望着，一边是一家古怪、阴暗的硬纸板，另一边是一家商业旅馆。
“在门洞里面。”保罗说。
他们探险似的进了牌楼，仿佛闯入龙潭。他们 走进一个宽大的院子，院子像一口井，四周都是高大的建筑，地上乱七八糟地堆着稻草、纸盒和纸板。阳光照在一只大板条箱上，里面的黄色的稻草撒得到处都是。院内其他地方和矿井一样阴暗。里面有几扇门，两个楼梯。正对着他们的楼梯最上面 有一扇肮脏的玻璃门，上面模模糊糊 有几个丧气的宇：“托马斯·乔丹父子外科医疗器械厂。”莫瑞尔太太走在前面，儿子跟着。当保罗跟在母亲后面登上了肮脏的台阶，走向那扇肮脏的门时，他的心情比查理一世上断头台时还要沉重而紧张。
她推开了门，新奇而欣喜地站在那儿。在她面前是一个大仓库，到处是奶油色的纸包，那些卷着袖子的职员们自由自在地走来走去，这里光线柔和，那些光滑的奶油色纸包似乎闪闪发光，还有一个深棕色的木柜台。所有这些都那么安静，富有家庭气氛。莫瑞尔太太向前走了两步，停下等着。保罗站在她身后。她戴着最好的帽子，披着黑面纱。他套着男孩子的那种白色大硬领，一套诺福克西服。
一个办事员抬起头 来，他瘦高瘦高，脸又窄又 长，看起来很机灵。然后他又朝屋子那头，一间用玻璃隔开的办公室看了一眼，才走了过来。他没有说话，只是带着和气的询问的神情俯身向着莫瑞尔太太。
“我可以 见见乔丹先生吗？”她问。
“我去找他。”小伙子回答。
他向那间玻璃隔开的办公室走去。一个红脸、白胡子的老头抬起头来，这人让保罗想起了一只长毛尖嘴的小狗。接着，小老头儿 走到外面屋子里来了。他两条腿很短，又矮又胖，穿着一件羊驼毛上衣，他像是竖了一只耳朵似的歪着头，带着询问的神情稳健地 走了过来。
“早上好！”他说，在莫瑞尔太太面前有些犹豫，不知道她是不是个顾客。
“早上好，我是陪我儿子保罗；莫瑞尔来的，你约他今天早上来见你。”
“到这边来。”乔丹先生说，语气干脆，一副生意人的模样。
他们跟着这位工厂老板走进一间乱七八糟的屋子，屋里摆着美洲黑皮面家具，被顾客们摸得明光闪亮，桌子上有一堆与黄色羊皮箍带缠在一起的疵气带，看上去崭新崭新，给人一种新鲜的感觉。保罗闻到一股新鲜的小羊皮味，但他不知道是什么东西。到这时，他已感到晕晕乎乎，只注意视线以内的东西了。
“坐下，”乔丹先生 有些不太耐烦地指着一张马鬃椅让莫瑞尔太太。她极不太自然地坐在那儿。接着，这个小老头掏出来一张纸。
“是你写的这封信吗？”他大声问道，顺手拿起那张纸递到保罗面前，保罗认出了这是他的信。
“是的。”他回答。
这时，他内心交织两种不同的感觉。首先，因为说了慌而感到内疚，因为那是威廉写的信稿。其次，他的信捏在那个人胖胖的红润的手里，显得非常生疏，和在家里放在桌子上完全不一样了。仿佛这封信就是他的一部分不听使唤了似的，他讨厌这人拿着信的样子。
“你从哪学会写字的？”这个老头粗鲁地问。
保罗只是不好意思地看着他，没有回答。
“他写得不好。”莫瑞尔太太抱歉般地插了一句。接着，她撩起了面纱。保罗恨她没有在这个普普通通的小老头面前显得高傲一些。不过，他喜欢她摘掉了面纱的脸。
“你还说你懂法语？”这个小老头问道，还是很尖刻。
“是的。”保罗说。
“你上的什么学校？”
“公立小学。”
“你是在哪里学的法语？”
“不……我……”孩子脸涨得通红，没再说下去。
“他的教父教的。”莫瑞尔太太说，有点解围的意味，但语气已相当冷淡了。
乔丹先生犹豫了一会儿。然后，急躁地——他的手似乎随时都急着要干什么似的——他从口袋里掏出另一张纸，哗啦哗啦地展开它，递给了保罗。
“念一下这个。”他说。
这是一张法文便条，细小而又龙飞凤舞的外文字迹弄得孩子无法辨认，他茫然地盯着这张纸。
“‘先生’，”他开始读了，但然后他又为难地看着乔丹先生，“这是……这是……”
他想说“笔迹”，可是他失 去了往日的机灵，他怎么也说不出来这个词。他觉得自己像一个大傻瓜，他恨乔丹先生，可他只有绝望地再看看那张纸。
"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job."
It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing alljoy and even life, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot.
And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to bea queer, quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town,he felt as if all the folk he met said to themselves: "He's goingto the Co-op. reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I suppose he's living on his mother." Then hecrept up the stone stairs behind the drapery shop at the Co-op.,and peeped in the reading-room. Usually one or two men were there,either old, useless fellows, or colliers "on the club". So he entered,full of shrinking and suffering when they looked up, seated himself atthe table, and pretended to scan the news. He knew they would think: "What does a lad of thirteen want in a reading-room with a newspaper?"and he suffered.
Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he wasa prisoner of industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over theold red wall of the garden opposite, looking in their jolly waydown on the women who were hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn, brightening in the sun. Two collieries,among the fields, waved their small white plumes of steam. Far offon the hills were the woods of Annesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was being taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was going now.
The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormousbarrels, four a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner,throned aloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so muchbelow Paul's eye. The man's hair, on his small, bullet head,was bleached almost white by the sun, and on his thick red arms,rocking idly on his sack apron, the white hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with sunshine. The horses,handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking by far the mastersof the show.
Paul wished he were stupid. "I wish," he thought to himself,"I was fat like him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pigand a brewer's waggoner."
Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copyan advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slipout in immense relief. His mother would scan over his copies.
"Yes," she said, "you may try."
William had written out a letter of application, couched inadmirable business language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy's handwriting was execrable, so that William, who did allthings well, got into a fever of impatience.
The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he foundthat he could associate with men far above his Bestwood friendsin station. Some of the clerks in the office had studied for the law,and were more or less going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends among men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon visiting and staying in houses of men who,in Bestwood, would have looked down on the unapproachable bank manager,and would merely have called indifferently on the Rector. So he beganto fancy himself as a great gun. He was, indeed, rather surprisedat the ease with which he became a gentleman.
His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodgingin Walthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kindof fever into the young man's letters. He was unsettled by allthe change, he did not stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spinrather giddily on the quick current of the new life. His mother wasanxious for him. She could feel him losing himself. He had dancedand gone to the theatre, boated on the river, been out with friends;and she knew he sat up afterwards in his cold bedroom grinding awayat Latin, because he intended to get on in his office, and in thelaw as much as he could. He never sent his mother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own life. And shedid not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a tight corner,and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. She stilldreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herself behind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and anxiousher heart was because of him.
Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance,a handsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the menwere running thick and fast.
"I wonder if you would run, my boy," his mother wroteto him, "unless you saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain enough in a crowd. But take care,and see how you feel when you find yourself alone, and in triumph." William resented these things, and continued the chase. He hadtaken the girl on the river. "If you saw her, mother, you wouldknow how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the clearest of clear,transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and suchgrey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It is all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses as well as any woman in London. I tell you,your son doesn't half put his head up when she goes walking downPiccadilly with him."
Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not gowalking down Piccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes,rather than with a woman who was near to him. But she congratulatedhim in her doubtful fashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub,the mother brooded over her son. She saw him saddled with anelegant and expensive wife, earning little money, dragging alongand getting draggled in some small, ugly house in a suburb. "But there," she told herself, "I am very likely a silly--meetingtrouble halfway." Nevertheless, the load of anxiety scarcely everleft her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by himself.
Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan,Manufacturer of Surgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all joy.
"There, you see!" she cried, her eyes shining. "You've onlywritten four letters, and the third is answered. You're lucky,my boy, as I always said you were."
Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elasticstockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper,and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed. And he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated systemof values, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemedmonstrous also that a business could be run on wooden legs.
Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and blazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed uptight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain ratherthan this unreasonable suffering at being exposed to strangers,to be accepted or rejected. Yet he chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her how he suffered over these things,and she only partly guessed. She was gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at Bestwood, and Paul watchedher take from her purse the money for the tickets.As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves gettingthe silver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with painof love of her.
She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because sheWOULD talk aloud in presence of the other travellers.
"Now look at that silly cow!" she said, "careering roundas if it thought it was a circus."
"It's most likely a bottfly," he said very low.
"A what?" she asked brightly and unashamed.
They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of havingher opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled tohim--a rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out of the window.
The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The motherand son walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovershaving an adventure together. In Carrington Street they stoppedto hang over the parapet and look at the barges on the canal below.
"It's just like Venice," he said, seeing the sunshineon the water that lay between high factory walls.
"Perhaps," she answered, smiling.
They enjoyed the shops immensely.
"Now you see that blouse," she would say, "wouldn't that justsuit our Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?"
"And made of needlework as well," he said.
"Yes."
They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The townwas strange and delightful to them. But the boy was tied up insidein a knot of apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan.
It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a narrow street that led to the Castle. It wasgloomy and old-fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green housedoors with brass knockers, and yellow-ochred doorsteps projectingon to the pavement; then another old shop whose small window lookedlike a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother and son went cautiously,looking everywhere for "Thomas Jordan and Son". It was like huntingin some wild place. They were on tiptoe of excitement.
Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were namesof various firms, Thomas Jordan among them.
"Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now WHERE is it?"
They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory,on the other a Commercial Hotel.
"It's up the entry," said Paul.
And they ventured under the archway, as into the jawsof the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well,with buildings all round. It was littered with straw and boxes,and cardboard. The sunshine actually caught one crate whose strawwas streaming on to the yard like gold. But elsewhere the placewas like a pit. There were several doors, and two flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase,loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical Appliances." Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted hisscaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he followed hismother up the dirty steps to the dirty door.
She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In frontof her was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere,and clerks, with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going aboutin an at-home sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy creamparcels seemed luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very homely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward,then waited. Paul stood behind her. She had on her Sundaybonnet and a black veil; he wore a boy's broad white collar and aNorfolk suit.
One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with asmall face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced roundto the other end of the room, where was a glass office. And thenhe came forward. He did not say anything, but leaned in a gentle,inquiring fashion towards Mrs. Morel.
"Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked.
"I'll fetch him," answered the young man.
He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskeredold man looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little man came up the room. He had short legs,was rather stout, and wore an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up,as it were, he came stoutly and inquiringly down the room.
"Good-morning!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel,in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not.
"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked himto call this morning."
"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy littlemanner intended to be businesslike.
They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room,upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing ofmany customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leatherhoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed theodour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By thistime he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morelto a horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the little old man fidgeted and found a paper.
"Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paulrecognised as his own notepaper in front of him.
"Yes," he answered.
At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feelingguilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter;second, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different,in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it layon the kitchen table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the man held it.
"Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly.
Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.
"He IS a bad writer," put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouderwith this common little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.
"And you say you know French?" inquired the little man,still sharply.
"Yes," said Paul.
"What school did you go to?"
"The Board-school."
"And did you learn it there?"
"No--I---" The boy went crimson and got no farther.
"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half pleadingand rather distant.
Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he alwaysseemed to keep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet ofpaper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it to Paul.
"Read that," he said.
It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwritingthat the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.
"'Monsieur,'" he began; then he looked in great confusionat Mr. Jordan. "It's the--it's the---"
He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer workeven sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool,and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.
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