“There are only certain parts he could play,” explained Brightwin to me; “but his voice belongs to quite a different order of parts. He has the voice of a tragedian and the body of a second low comedian. In fact, there is no hope for him that I can see.
“He might, however, start a theatre; which would be hope for us, if we kept in with him,” added Brightwin thoughtfully.
IX
My victorious career received a very serious check about this period. I had, of course, bought Aristotle’s Poetics and a cheap edition of Hamlet, and on one or two occasions I much regret to say that Mr. Westonshaugh, the best and kindest of men, had found me reading them when I ought to have been registering policies of insurance.
He had rather a stealthy way of approaching the staff of the Country Department from the rear, and, though a large man, revealed the instincts of a hunter wonderfully developed; so that he was often upon his game, which generally consisted of junior clerks, before the quarry was roused and aware of its danger.
The first time he cautioned me; but the second time I grieve to relate that he reported me. It was, of course, his duty to do so; and I believe he regretted the necessity. But so it was; and it meant that I had to go before the Secretary of the Apollo and meet him face to face, much to my disadvantage.
The Secretary was, of course, the pivot round which the whole office turned. The Directors themselves seldom dared to interfere with him; for he was the hero of a thousand fights, so to say, and had climbed to the giddy altitude of the secretarial chair after a lifetime spent in heroic and successful efforts to advance the prosperity of the Apollo Fire Office. His fame naturally extended far beyond the walls of the Apollo. He was known throughout the whole insurance world as a light in the darkness. He had written more than one book on the subject; and the Insurance Guide, the journal of the insurance craft, seldom appeared without some respectful allusion to his great fame. I believe he was a sort of king over the secretaries of other Fire Offices; at any rate, nobody ever pretended there was anybody to equal him. He was called Septimus Trott, Esquire; and there came a gloomy morning when I stood before him alone in the silence of the secretarial chamber. But, of course, the interest was profound, for my fate might be said to hang in the balance. I had seen Mr. Trott far off on several occasions, and had once, in the Board Room, where I went with a message, witnessed the solemn sight of him conversing on equal terms with six Directors simultaneously, and easily making them think as he thought, thanks to his enormous experience and easy flow of words; but this was the first time I had approached him in propria persona, as we say.
He was of a sable silvered, with a florid complexion, and his eyes had a piercing quality. He wore gold-rimmed glasses divided horizontally, so that when he looked through the tops of them he could see men and things about him, and when he looked through the bottom he could read documents and data, or see to write himself if necessary.
He now looked through the upper story of his glasses and focused me with an expression that I had never seen before on any human countenance. It was not pity, by any means, and it was not scorn. You couldn’t say that Mr. Trott was angry; but then you certainly couldn’t say that he was pleased. He regarded me thoughtfully, yet without what you might call much emotion. He was perfectly calm, yet under his easy self-control I soon found that he concealed a good deal of quiet annoyance at what he had heard about me. Having studied my features, which I had striven to make as apologetic as possible, he dropped to the lower story of his glasses, and I perceived that he had open before him some registers of my writing. They evidently dismayed him, and for some time he said not a word. At length he broke a silence which was becoming exceedingly painful.
“Mr. Corkey,” he exclaimed, “I believe you are in your eighteenth year!”