But the
scholastic agents to whom he went on the following Saturday did much
in a quiet way to disabuse his mind.
Mr. Blendershin's chief assistant in the grimy little office in Oxford
Street cleared up the matter so vigorously that Lewisham was angered.
"Headmaster 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.
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