There he introduced his son to the notice of Mr.Grant Maitland, with request for employment.
The old man looked the boy over.
"What has he been doing ?" "Nothin'.

'E's just left school." "High School ?" "Naw.

Public School." Wigglesworth Sr.'s tone indicated no exalted opinion of the Public School.
"Public School! What grade, eh ?" "Grade?
I dinnaw.

Wot grade, Samuel?
Come, speak (h)up, cawn't yeh ?" "Uh ?" Sam's mental faculties had been occupied in observing the activities and guessing the probable fate of a lumber-jack gaily decked in scarlet sash and blue overalls, who was the central figure upon a flaming calendar tacked up behind Mr.Maitland's desk, setting forth the commercial advantages of trading with the Departmental Stores of Stillwell & Son.
"Wot grade in school, the boss is (h)askin'," said his father sharply.
"Grade ?" enquired Sam, returning to the commonplace of the moment.
"Yes, what grade in the Public School were you in when you left ?" The blue eyes of the boss was "borin' 'oles" through Sam and the voice pierced like a "bleedin' gimblet," as Wigglesworth, Sr., reported to his spouse that afternoon.
Sam hesitated a bare second.

"Fourth grade it was," he said with sullen reluctance.
"'Adn't no chance, Samuel 'adn't.