Pullovitch finally recovered consciousness about four p.m., and immediately there were doings. There were always doings when he recovered from a jag. “Send for Spitoonski,” he roared, and immediately the four secretaries and seven messengers got out of harm’s way.
Spitoonski was the chief cook and bottle washer of Pullovitch. He did for Pullovitch what Pullovitch did not care to do for himself. He told the Pullovitch lies and did the squirming about, and what is known in Russian Political Circles as “the dirty.”
It can be easily imagined that Spitoonski was not liked, but feared; and that every poor government clerk trembled when he came within the visual orbit of his little black pig-like eyes. He was of low origin, and had sunk lower. He would do anything for money but work, and was the willing tool of Pullovitch. He never smiled. He believed it was not dignified to smile. He made every effort he could to appear dignified, which was difficult, considering he was only the height of six pennyworth of copper, had a crooked neck and one shoulder higher than the other. Occasionally Spitoonski would allow his face to wrinkle up in a beautiful snarl. When he did this, he thought he was smiling, and checked it immediately, which was a very welcome relief to the on-looker; for it was very unsightly.
Immediately upon being notified, Spitoonski crawled into the presence of his Chief, smiling. “Cover up your teeth and listen to me, viper,” said Pullovitch.
Spitoonski bowed, and accepted the compliment.
“Among the rubbish we have employed under us,” continued Pullovitch, “we have one Slopft, who never does anything but chatter to himself, eat, and sleep. He will soon be fit for a padded room; but before he gets any more crazy, do thou prepare a solemn ukase and have him made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes at steen pieces of silver per month. His brother keeps a swell gambling house, and has much influence; so we must do something.”
Spitoonski listened patiently, and then ventured to protest: “Your highness,” said he, “if you will allow me to humbly make a remark, I would say that if this thing is done your noble person will be besieged by every Tom, Dick and Harry in your beautiful and well ordered department. They will make you feel like a singed horse in Fly Time. You know them.”
“Shut up and do my bidding. I did not ask for advice. Get out, skiddaddle, vamose, scoot, mizzle, fly, or I’ll straighten your crooked neck,” said Pullovitch, frothing at the mouth. And Spitoonski thanked him kindly, and withdrew.
The morning following the Daily Dung Heap made the whole community wise to the fact that the eminent citizen, Mr. P. Q. R. S. Slopft, had been made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes.
Immediately there were doings in the Pullovitch Department. Every one employed therein, from the Deputy down to the Window Cleaner, prepared to pull such wires as they commanded to the end of having immediate increase or promotion, or both; and for seven days and seven nights the excitement was intense. Letters, telegrams and petitions rained like hail upon Pullovitch; but as Pullovitch had his personality submerged in strong drink, the strain was only on the paper basket. Among the importunates was one De Bum, a cunning rascal who had aided and abetted a certain Buttinsky in an election, and he spake with the said Buttinsky, saying: