(Sidney Price’s narrative continued)
They give you a small bonus at the “Moon” if you get through a quarter without being late, which just shows the sort of scale on which the “Moon” does things. Cookson, down at the Oxford Street Emporium, gets fined regular when he’s late. Shilling the first hour and twopence every five minutes after. I’ve known gentlemen in banks, railway companies, dry goods, and woollen offices, the Indian trade, jute, tea—every manner of shop—but they all say the same thing, “We are ruled by fear.” It’s fear that drags them out of bed in the morning; it’s fear that makes them bolt, or even miss, their sausages; it’s fear that makes them run to catch their train. But the “Moon’s” method is of a different standard. The “Moon” does not intimidate; no, it entwines itself round, it insinuates itself into, the hearts of its employees. It suggests, in fact, that we should not be late by offering us this small bonus. No insurance office and, up to the time of writing, no other assurance office has been able to boast as much. The same cause is at the bottom of the “Moon’s” high reputation, both inside and outside. It does things in a big way. It’s spacious.
The “Moon’s” timing system is great, too. Great in its simplicity. The regulation says you’ve got to be in the office by ten o’clock. Suppose you arrive with ten minutes to spare. You go into the outer office (there’s only one entrance—the big one in Threadneedle Street) and find on the right-hand side of the circular counter a ledger. The ledger is open: there is blotting-paper and a quill pen beside it. Everyone’s name is written in alphabetical order on the one side of the ledger and on the other side there is a blank page ruled down the middle with a red line. Having made your appearance at ten to ten, you put your initials in a line with your name on the page opposite and to the left of the division. If, on the other hand, you’ve missed your train, and don’t turn up till ten minutes past ten, you’ve got to initial your name on the other side of the red line. In the space on the right of the line, a thick black dash has been drawn by Leach, the cashier. He does this on the last stroke of ten. It makes the page look neat, he says. Which is quite right and proper. I see his point of view entirely. The ledger must look decent in an office like the “Moon.” Tommy Milner agrees with me. He says that not only does it look better, but it prevents unfortunate mistakes on the part of those who come in late. They might forget and initial the wrong side.
After ten the book goes into Mr. Leach’s private partition, and you’ve got to go in there to sign.
It was there when I came into the office on the morning after we’d been to talk business with Mr. Cloyster. It had been there about an hour and a half.
“Lost your bonus, Price, my boy,” said genial Mr. Leach. And the General Manager, Mr. Fennell, who had stepped out of his own room close by, heard him say it.
“I do not imagine that Mr. Price is greatly perturbed on that account. He will, no doubt, shortly be forsaking us for literature. What Commerce loses, Art gains,” said the G.M.
He may have meant to be funny, or he may not. Some of those standing near took him one way, others the other. Some gravely bowed their heads, others burst into guffaws. The G.M. often puzzled his staff in that way. All were anxious to do the right thing by him, but he made it so difficult to tell what the right thing was.
But, as I went down the basement stairs to change my coat in the clerks’ locker-room, I understood from the G.M.’s words how humiliating my position was.
I had always been a booky sort of person. At home it had been a standing joke that, when a boy, I would sooner spend a penny on Tit-Bits than liquorice. And it was true. Not that I disliked liquorice. I liked Tit-Bits better, though. So the thing had gone on. I advanced from Deadwood Dick to Hall Caine and Guy Boothby; and since I had joined the “Moon” I had actually gone a buster and bought Omar Khayyam in the Golden Treasury series. Added to which, I had recently composed a little lyric for a singer at the “Moon’s” annual smoking concert. The lines were topical and were descriptive of our Complete Compensation Policy. Tommy Milner was the vocalist. He sang my composition to a hymn tune. The refrain went: