Tommy and Grizel | Page 3

its strained joviality
was in odd contrast with his solemn face, like a cheery tune played on
the church organ.
"Begone!" cried Pym.
"My full name," explained Tommy, who was speaking the English
correctly, but with a Scots accent, "is Thomas Sandys. And fine you
know who that is," he added, exasperated by Pym's indifference. "I'm
the T. Sandys that answered your advertisement."
Pym knew who he was now. "You young ruffian," he gasped, "I never
dreamt that you would come!"
"I have your letter engaging me in my pocket," said Tommy, boldly,
and he laid it on the table. Pym surveyed it and him in comic dismay,
then with a sudden thought produced nearly a dozen letters from a
drawer, and dumped them down beside the other. It was now his turn to
look triumphant and Tommy aghast.
Pym's letters were all addressed from the Dubb of Prosen Farm, near
Thrums, N.B., to different advertisers, care of a London agency, and
were Tommy's answers to the "wants" in a London newspaper which
had found its way to the far North. "X Y Z" was in need of a chemist's
assistant, and from his earliest years, said one of the letters, chemistry
had been the study of studies for T. Sandys. He was glad to read, was T.
Sandys, that one who did not object to long hours would be preferred,
for it seemed to him that those who objected to long hours did not
really love their work, their heart was not in it, and only where the heart

is can the treasure be found.
"123" had a vacancy for a page-boy, "Glasgow Man" for a
photographer; page-boy must not be over fourteen, photographer must
not be under twenty. "I am a little over fourteen, but I look less," wrote
T. Sandys to "123"; "I am a little under twenty," he wrote to "Glasgow
Man," "but I look more." His heart was in the work.
To be a political organizer! If "H and H," who advertised for one, only
knew how eagerly the undersigned desired to devote his life to political
organizing!
In answer to "Scholastic's" advertisement for janitor in a boys' school,
T. Sandys begged to submit his name for consideration.
Undoubtedly the noblest letter was the one applying for the
secretaryship of a charitable society, salary to begin at once, but the
candidate selected must deposit one hundred pounds. The application
was noble in its offer to make the work a labour of love, and almost
nobler in its argument that the hundred pounds was unnecessary.
"Rex" had a vacancy in his drapery department. T. Sandys had made a
unique study of drapery.
Lastly, "Anon" wanted an amanuensis. "Salary," said "Anon," who
seemed to be a humourist, "salary large but uncertain." He added with
equal candour: "Drudgery great, but to an intelligent man the pickings
may be considerable." Pickings! Is there a finer word in the language?
T. Sandys had felt that he was particularly good at pickings. But
amanuensis? The thing was unknown to him; no one on the farm could
tell him what it was. But never mind; his heart was in it.
All this correspondence had produced one reply, the letter on which
Tommy's hand still rested. It was a brief note, signed "O.P. Pym," and
engaging Mr. Sandys on his own recommendation, "if he really felt
quite certain that his heart (treasure included) was in the work." So far
good, Tommy had thought when he received this answer, but there was
nothing in it to indicate the nature of the work, nothing to show

whether O.P. Pym was "Scholastic," or "123," or "Rex," or any other
advertiser in particular. Stop, there was a postscript: "I need not go into
details about your duties, as you assure me you are so well acquainted
with them, but before you join me please send (in writing) a full
statement of what you think they are."
There were delicate reasons why Mr. Sandys could not do that, but oh,
he was anxious to be done with farm labour, so he decided to pack and
risk it. The letter said plainly that he was engaged; what for he must
find out slyly when he came to London. So he had put his letter firmly
on Pym's table; but it was a staggerer to find that gentleman in
possession of the others.
One of these was Pym's by right; the remainder were a humourous gift
from the agent who was accustomed to sift the correspondence of his
clients. Pym had chuckled over them, and written a reply that he
flattered himself would stump the boy; then he had unexpectedly come
into funds (he found a forgotten check while searching his old pockets
for tobacco-crumbs), and in that glory T. Sandys escaped