§ 1
A WEDNESDAY morning in June. Catherine had been in the song department for just over a month. Her work was easy and not too monotonous. It consisted in selling ballad songs, and trying them over to customers on the piano. Every day new music came from the publishers, and she had to familiarize herself with it. She was very successful at this kind of work, and was altogether happy in her position.
The stores opened at nine, but business was always slack until half-past ten or thereabouts. Mr. Hobbs, everlastingly attired in a morning coat and butterfly collar, with his hair beautifully oiled and his moustache beautifully curled, and his lips beautifully carven into an attitude of aristocratic politeness, arrived always on the stroke of nine. His first duty was to open the packages from the publishers, but before doing this he would wash his hands carefully lest the journey from South Bockley should have contaminated them. Should also the alignment of his hair-parting have been disturbed in transit he would remedy the defect with scrupulous exactitude. Then, and only then, would he exhibit himself for the delectation of the general public....
On this particular morning Mr. Hobbs did not arrive upon the stroke of nine. Such an event had never been known to happen before. Catherine and Amelia and the other girls of the music department were thrilled with the romance of Mr. Hobbs’ non-arrival. In soft whispers they discussed what might possibly have happened to him. The previous evening he had left upon the stroke of six, seemingly in a state of complete normality, physical and mental. Had some dire fate overwhelmed him? Or—prosaic thought—had he overslept himself? ...
And then at a quarter past ten Mr. Hobbs entered the portals of the music department. His morning coat was marked by a chalky smudge, his tie was unsymmetrical, his moustache uncurled and his top hat considerably and conspicuously battered.
Was he drunk? The girls waited breathless for an explanation.
“There was an accident to the 8.42 at Liverpool Street,” he announced calmly. “It ran into the end of the platform.”
“Were you hurt?” Amelia asked him.
“I received no personal hurts,” he replied, “but my hat, as you see, is badly damaged.” And he pointed solemnly to the hat he held in his hand.
“Well, it’s quarter past ten now,” said one of the girls. “What did you do all that time?”
“I just went round to the company offices to lodge a complaint,” he answered quietly.
“What for?” said Catherine. “You weren’t hurt.”
“But my hat was,” he replied. “And I can’t afford to buy a new hat every time the company runs their train into the end of the platform.”
Catherine was amazed at the man’s utter coolness.
“Well,” she said laughingly, “I’m sure if I’d been in a railway accident I should have been so glad to get out without hurting myself that I should never have thought about complaining for a hat.”
He smiled—a touch of male superiority made itself apparent in his eyes. Then he delivered judgment.
“One should always,” he said massively, “know what one should do in any contingency, however unforeseen. And everyone should be acquainted with the first principles of English law ... there’s those parcels down from Augeners’, Miss Weston....”