“He 'ill never be the man that Perkins expects, but he's doing his level best, and... is rising in the office. Perkins swears by him, and that's made a man of the fellow.
“He's paid up the cash now, but... he can never pay up the kindness—confound those wax matches, they never strike—he told his mother last summer the whole story.
“She wrote to Perkins—of course I don't know what was in the letter—but Perkins had the fellow into his room. 'You ought to have regarded our transaction as confidential. I am grieved you mentioned my name;' and then as I—I mean, as the fellow—was going out, 'I'll keep that letter beside my commission,' said Perkins.
“If Perkins dies”—young men don't do that kind of thing, or else one would have thought—“it'ill be... a beastly shame,” which was a terrible collapse, and Mr. Geoffrey Light-head, of the Schedule Department, left the house without further remark or even shaking hands..
That was Wednesday, and on Friday morning he appeared, flourishing a large blue envelope, sealed with an imposing device, marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” and addressed to—
“Frederick Augustus Perkins, Esq.,
“First Class Clerk in the Schedule Department,
“Somerset House,
“London,”
An envelope any man might be proud to receive, and try to live up to for a week.