Ingleborough smiled grimly and went on with his work, West following suit, and they were busy enough till “tiffin-time” that morning.
Their “tiffin” went on as usual; but out in the town there was a buzz of excitement which resembled that heard in a beehive when some mischievous boy has thrust in a switch and given it a good twist round before running for his life.
So eager and excited did everyone seem that West could hardly tear himself away from the main street, which was full of talking groups, everyone seeming to be asking the same question—“What is to be done first?”—but getting no reply.
“We ought to fortify the place,” said West to himself, and full of this idea, which he intended to propound to Ingleborough and Anson as soon as he reached the office, he hurried in that direction, all the faster from the fact that he had been so interested in the busy state of the streets that he had overstayed his time.
On approaching the office door the conscious blood rose to his cheeks, for he could hear an angry voice speaking, upon which he could only place one interpretation—namely, that one of the principals was finding fault severely because he, the guilty one, was not back to his time.
“What a fool I am!” muttered West. Then, pulling himself together, he stepped forward, muttering again: “Must take my dose like a man.”
The next moment he had opened the door quickly, entered and closed it, and then stood staring in wonder at the scene before him.
For there was no angry principal present—only his two fellow-clerks: Ingleborough stern and frowning, and Anson with his ordinarily pink face turned to a sallow white, and, instead of being plump and rounded, looking sunken and strange.
“What’s the matter?” said West, for Anson, who had the moment before been talking rapidly, suddenly ceased. “You’re not quarrelling, are you?” he continued, for no one replied. “Oh well, I’ll be off till you’ve done.”
“No, don’t go,” cried Anson, springing forward and grasping his arm.