"Why, there'll be scores of other boys after the place.

You don't expect your letter's the best of the lot, do you?
Besides, they'd never have a boy up from the country when there are so many in London ready for the place, who are used to the work.

Mark my word, you'll hear no more about it." And so it seemed likely to be.

Day after day went by and the post brought no letter; I was beginning to think I should have to settle down as a newspaper-boy or a page after all.
At the end of the week I was so disheartened that I could stay in the house no longer, but sallied out, I cared not whither, for a day in the fresh air.
As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered baker's cart with the name painted outside, "Walker, Baker, Packworth." A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend.

Making a sign to the youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, "I say, what would you give me a lift for to Packworth ?" "What for?
S'pose we say a fifty-pun' note," was the facetious reply.
"I could do with a fifty-pun' note pretty comfortable." "Oh, but really, how much?
I want to go to Packworth awfully, but it's such a long way to walk." "What do you weigh, eh ?" "I don't know; about seven stone, I think." "If you was eight stun I wouldn't take you, there! But hop up!" And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker's cart all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth.
My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics.
Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire, "I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth ?" The Jehu laughed.
"Know him--old Jack Smith?
Should think I do." "You do ?" cried I, delighted, springing to my feet and knocking over a whole pyramid of loaves.