When I reached the station I entered a telephone box, got through to the office at last, and broke the news to one of my colleagues—a tall, thin, dyspeptic individual called Swanson—a "promotion" man who took work very seriously, in the hope of some ultimate and earthly reward for his industry and intelligence.
"Hello!" I said. "That you, Swanson? This is Barnett speaking."
"Anything the matter?" he asked. "Not ill, I hope."
"Yes! I'm taking sick leave at once. I'm sick of the work, sick of the office, sick of the Civil Service—dead beat!"
A horrified pause. Then:
"You sound very cheerful in spite of it! What's happened? Any message for the chief?"
"My love and blessings! Tell him that I'm going for a sea voyage—for the good of my soul!"
"You're joking. . . ."
"Not a bit! I'm going to Gaboon."
"Where?"