From the Angle of Seventeen

by Eden Phillpotts

I found an empty desk waiting for me beside Mr. Blades, and I could see by his manner, which was kindly but penetrating, that he was considering what sort of clerk I should make. Others also looked at me. One man said “Legs!” referring to mine, which were very long. There was a strange and helpless feeling about it all. I dimly remembered feeling just the same when I first went to Merivale. Mr. Blades called a messenger and bade him bring pens, fill the ink-bottles and fetch blotting-paper and paper-cutter, a ruler, an ink eraser, and other clerkly instruments.

“Your first duty,” he said, “is to copy policies into the books. Here is a pile of policies and they are numbered in order. There are no abbreviations on the actual policy; but abbreviations are allowed in copying them into the books. This saves many hours of time. For instance, the word ‘communicating’ occurs over and over again. So, in copying it, we reduce it to three letters, namely ‘com.’ I will now copy a policy and you can see how I do it.”

Mr. Blades was kindness itself and, indeed, from that day forward I blessed his name. He was a brick. He was fierce certainly, and if angered, as sometimes happened, would utter dreadful imprecations, such as I thought were only to be heard among pirates and other story-book people; but he had a big heart and a very heroic mind. He feared nothing and, though a small man, exhibited great courage on many occasions in his private life, of which he told me when I knew him better. He was married and lived at Bickleigh and had offspring.

I settled to the work and nothing much happened, though I had very often to refer to Mr. Blades. He never minded and was always ready with his wide knowledge, which, of course, extended far beyond the copying that I had to do. In fact, the Department teemed with men of the greatest ability, and not only did every one of them exhibit perfect mastery of the complicated art of drawing-out of insurance policies against fire, but many of them, as I found gradually—in fact, almost every one—had some remarkable talent which was not wanted in their official tasks. Some could draw and some could play various musical instruments; some were very keen sportsmen and understood cricket and football and other branches; and some were great readers and knew all about literature. Some, again, were gardeners and cultivated most beautiful exotics, which they brought to the office to raffle from time to time. Others, again, arranged sweepstakes on horse-races and brightened up the dull routine of official life in this way. Others were volunteers and very keen about soldiering. I hoped that I might find somebody interested in the stage, but curiously enough, though many went to the theatre, none ever wanted to become professional actors.

When the luncheon interval arrived I was allowed to go out for refreshments, and I went and walked about in the City of London. But I did not go farther than the huge figures that beat time over a watchmaker’s shop in Cheapside. It must have been wonderful mechanism, and I should like to have had it explained, but there was no time to go into the shop. And, in any case, I shouldn’t have had the cheek to ask. By a funny chance, near the Royal Exchange I found the identical Murch’s shop, where Mr. Benyon Pepys used to go and have turtle-soup after the labours of signing policies; so I thought that if it suited him so well, it might suit me also. With great presence of mind, however, I first asked the price of a plate, and on hearing it, made some hurried excuse and went back into the street. Turtle-soup is out of the question for beginners in the City of London. I had a Bath bun and a glass of milk instead and then went back to work.

It was after returning that the first thing that I really understood and enjoyed happened at the Apollo. Up till then I felt rather small and helpless and strange. Here was I, like an ant in a nest, but I felt a fool of an ant—good for nothing but to make mistakes and worry Mr. Blades. The huge whirl and rush of business dazed me. I almost heard the thunder of machinery; but I knew really that all the machinery was going on inside the heads of those thirty-five able and industrious men. I expected that they were working for their wives and children and their old, infirm mothers and so on. It was real grim life. It is true there were a few boys there besides me; but they also were able and industrious, if not brilliant, and they were all doing their part in the great machine. Even the messengers were. They were nearly all old, brave, wounded soldiers. I felt the solemnity. I seemed like a mere insect in a solemn cathedral where a mighty service was going on and everybody was doing their appointed part but me. I had spoiled several large sheets of paper and felt a sort of sick feeling that I was not earning my fifty pounds a year, and should soon be told so. I made a calculation on my blotting-paper to see how much money I ought to earn each day. The amount discouraged me and, besides that, I had another sort of animal feeling that I wasn’t getting enough air to breathe. Then, in this dark and despairing moment, there happened a thing that bucked me up and put new life into me. Suddenly I got a terrific smack on the side of the face, and an orange, about half sucked, fell from my cheek upon the page spread before me. It was like a pleasant breath of Merivale. I understood it; I knew how to handle it. For a moment I no longer felt like an insect in some vast cathedral. I was deeply interested and hoped that the man who could do a thing of this sort in a solemn scene like the Country Department of the Apollo Fire Office, might be a real friend to me. It happened that, as I came back from lunching, I had seen a young man with the lid of his desk raised. His head was inside and he was sucking this identical orange that had now hit me in the face. I felt at the time that the man who could suck an orange in the midst of this booming hive of industry must be out of the common. And so he proved to be. He was dark and clean-shaved, with broad shoulders and a purple chin. I knew, therefore, when the orange arrived, who had chucked it, and could not help feeling the purple-chinned young man was a jolly good shot, whatever else he might be. I laughed when the orange hit me, and looked over to him; but he was writing very busily and not a muscle moved. I didn’t dare chuck the half-sucked orange back, for fear of making a boss shot, the consequences of which might have been very serious, because at least three men of considerable age, and one grey, sat between us. So I picked up the orange and got off my stool.

“Sit down! don’t take any notice,” said Mr. Blades, who was trying not to laugh and failing; but I felt that perhaps he didn’t quite understand a thing like this, having passed the stage for it and being married and so on; whereas no doubt the purple-chinned young man, if he could chuck an orange, could also get it back without taking it in the wrong spirit.

A good many chaps watched me and some thought I was going to take the orange into Mr. Westonshaugh; but I just went casually up the room, and when I got to the purple-chinned young man, who was writing away like mad, I stopped and turned suddenly.

“A ripping shot,” I said. “I funked flinging it back for fear of hitting the wrong man.”

Then I squashed down the orange hard on the purple-chinned young man’s head and hooked back to my desk.