For the second time, George Early was unable to tackle his morning work. He could only sit gloomily at his desk and use up the language he had learned overnight in reviling Fate for treating him so scandalously.
Then he began to go over the events of the interviews again, and soon his countenance cleared so considerably that he was able to discuss the lamentable decease of the firm's head without a pang. Not only did his spirits rise, but they became positively hilarious towards midday; so much so that he shocked all those—and they were many—who felt gravity to be the order of the moment.
"Where's Polly?" asked George, as the lunch-hour approached. He was directed to the head clerk's private office, and into this he went at once, closing the door behind him. Parrott was busy with a sheaf of correspondence, and he looked up to see George Early standing easily a few yards away.
"Got a few minutes to spare?" asked George, coming forward, and leaning on the desk.
The head clerk frowned; he resented familiarity.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Oh, it's just a small matter," said George; "I want to borrow half a crown."
Parrott dropped the letters he was holding, and looked up in amazement.
"What?" he said faintly.
"Half a crown," said George; "I want to borrow one."