Netherby Gomme had scarcely got under fair way with the writing of his amorous matter when the boy whipped round on his office-stool.
“I say, Netherby,” said he; “your book is making a splash all along the Thames. The bookstalls are covered with it—the whole blessed town is saffron with it.”
The yellow-haired youth smiled complacently; sitting back in his chair, he nodded:
“Indeed?” he said.
Noll slipped down off the stool, took it up, and carried it over to the fireplace:
“You were a chunk-head not to put your name to it!” he said. “But all the same, you know, it’s been roaring funny to hear the father and mother talk about it.”
He vaulted to the top of the high stool, scrambled on to his feet, and, reaching up, opened the glass face of the clock:
“It almost bursts me sometimes that I can’t tell ’em you wrote it,” he said. He got on tip-toe and put forward the large hand twenty minutes, shut the face with a click, turned where he stood, and, thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets, he added confidentially:
“D’you know, Netherby, between you and me and the office ink-pot, I never thought myself that you could be so uncommon funny.”
The yellow-haired youth blushed.