“Yes, I can,” I was glad to say; “I can make it up to a cent from my books.”
“Oh, you keep books? That looks better.”
“Yes, Sir John. I have always kept books,” I said, and my inward thought was, “Thank God.”
“They must be interesting,” he said, and the shadow of a smile hovered for an instant about the corners of his mouth, and showed in his keen eye. “Bring your books to me to-morrow morning at 8.30, at my office. Good morning!” And he coolly turned and walked upstairs, leaving me to find my way out alone.
CHAPTER XIII
It may seem strange that a man of my character should keep books of account. But the habit of keeping a financial memoranda had been formed when I was very young; in my first pocket-money days, in fact. Father gave me money at irregular intervals, and allowed me to earn small sums, but he never made me a regular allowance of pocket-money at any time. When I asked him for money, he always asked me what had become of the last money I had owned, and failure to give a satisfactory account would cut off supply for a few days. Then again, even as a small boy, I had always spent several weeks of my summer holidays in father’s office, where I passed my time with the head book-keeper, who, when not too busy, was a kindly man, willing to satisfy my curiosity about the huge books he kept; so that before I went to college, I had a working idea of the art of keeping accounts. After Mason left the mill, the simple book-keeping devolved on me, and I kept separate books for my little general store. In this way, I formed a habit of keeping track of where money went.
Leaving Sir John’s house I went home and prepared a simple and straightforward statement of my affairs. It was not much of a task, for I had systematically kept a record of everything, including house expenses and all transactions in detail. My accounts could have stood an audit. By them I knew how very unpromising was the outlook. The statement was not much to my credit. It wrote me down a fool in capital letters, but I could not afford to humbug myself, and much less could I dare keep back any facts from Sir John.
After the work on my statement of affairs was done, I passed a most miserable and anxious afternoon and evening. I could not talk to Muriel, for I knew I could only speak of one subject, which I could not hope to make her understand. She had been very much of a help and comfort to me in a hundred ways, in fact in every way except on the financial side of our common affairs. She was not born with a mathematical mind. Figures only annoyed her and were never understood. She was one of those women who count their change from a purchase by the crude assistance of ten fingers. I had made one or two very expensive experiments in attempts to make her a business woman, by giving her a limited credit with a dry goods store. Nothing can be done in this direction with a woman who believes that the difference between one hundred dollars and two hundred dollars is a small affair. In this she was Mrs. Joseph’s counterpart. Mrs. Joseph put disagreeable financial facts away from her, with a wave of her well-shaped hand, saying, “Don’t bother me about them; what do I know about such things?” Muriel, consequently, was of little or no help to me in my financial crisis. Some men habitually tell their money matters to their wives, and get sound advice and much comfort. I never did. Muriel knew, of course, that I was in difficulties, but she was not much disturbed. She believed in luck and felt that everything would come out all right in the end. She was a fatalist where money was concerned, and had implicit faith in my destiny.
Sir John’s office was like himself—cold, cheerless, austere and old-fashioned. It was in a very old building which had once been a private house in St. James Street, now given up entirely to business. The street was narrow, dirty, ill-paved and noisy. A narrow door opening upon a narrow, steep, and dark staircase led to the offices which were above a tobacconist’s shop. On a little skylight over the door were two words in plain black letters, John Duff, without explanation or embellishment; no word to say that he was a manufacturer, or what he manufactured. How such a man as John Duff ever came to accept the decoration of “Sir” is one of the mysteries of human nature.
At the top of the stairway you found yourself in what had once been a highly respectable house. The rooms were low, the windows small, and the floors well worn. Evidently no attempt had been made to make the place attractive or to disguise its bareness. Everything said as plainly as could be that the man who spent days in such a place had never dreamed that every-day things could or should be made beautiful.