“I met Mr. Martin Tupper at a bookstall, and he introduced himself and asked me to lunch, sir,” I said. But the Head of the Department did not like this at all, and I was a good deal distressed to find the spirit in which he took it. He seemed pained and startled by what I told him; he even showed a great disinclination to accept my word.
“Go back to your work, sir,” he said, in a very stern voice, “and don’t add buffoonery to your other irregularities. I am much disappointed in you, Mr. Corkey.”
It was a fearful thing to hear this great and good man misunderstand me so completely. In fact, the blood of shame sprang to my forehead—a thing that had never happened before. And then he made another even more terrible speech.
“You look to me very much as if you’d been drinking,” he said. “Have a care, young man; for if there is one thing that will ruin your future more quickly than another, it is that disgusting offense!”
I sneaked away then, in a state of bewildered grief, sorrowful repentance, and mournful exasperation. This was by far the unhappiest event in my life; and things got worse and worse as the day wore on.
Mr. Blades asked me what the deuce I’d been doing, and when I told him, he said “Rats!” This was a word he used to mean scorn. Then he continued, and even used French.
“‘Martin Tupper!’ Why don’t you say it was Martin Luther at once? I believe it’s a case of ‘Sasshay la fam!’”
“Martin Luther died in 1546, so it couldn’t have been him, and I don’t know what ‘Sasshay la fam’ means,” I said, and Mr. Blades replied in a most startling manner:
“So’s Martin Tupper dead—sure to be! Ages ago, no doubt. Anyway, I happen to know that Mr. Westonshaugh thinks the dickens of a lot of him, so when you said he’d been standing you a lunch, you made the worst joke you could have.”
“It wasn’t a joke, but quite the reverse,” I said; and then I told Mr. Blades how I had an introduction to Mr. Wilson Barrett at that moment in my pocket—to prove the truth of what I was saying.