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 pig and a brewer’s waggoner.”
Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out 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 in admirable business language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy’s handwriting was execrable, so that William, who did all things well, got into a fever of impatience.