There were two counting-rooms—a small outer and a large inner one. In the outer room sat a tall middle-aged man, lanky and worn in appearance and with a red nose. Opposite to him, at the same desk, sat a small fat boy with a round red face, and no chin to speak of. The man was writing busily—the boy was drawing a caricature of the man, also busily.
Passing these, Bob Bowie entered the inner office, where a dozen clerks were all busily employed, or pretending to be so. Going straight onward like a homeward-bound ship, keeping his eyes right ahead, Bob was stranded at last in front of a green door, at which he knocked, and was answered with a hearty “Come in.”
The porter went in and found Fred Temple seated at a table which was covered with books and papers.
“Oh! I sent for you, Bowie, to say that I want you to go with me to Norway to-morrow morning.”
“To Norway, sir!” said Bowie in surprise.
“Ay, surely you’re not growing timid in your old age, Bob! It is but a short voyage of two or three days. My little schooner is a good sea-boat, and a first-rate sailor.”
“Why, as for bein’ timid,” said the porter, rubbing the end of his nose, which was copper-coloured and knotty, “I don’t think I ever knowed that there feelin’, but it does take a feller aback to be told all of a suddent, after he’s reg’larly laid up in port, to get ready to trip anchor in twelve hours and bear away over the North Sea—not that I cares a brass fardin’ for that fish-pond, blow high, blow low, but it’s raither suddent, d’ye see, and my rig ain’t just seaworthy.”
Bowie glanced uneasily at his garments, which were a cross between those of a railway-guard and a policeman.
“Never mind the rig, Bob,” cried Fred, laughing. “Do you get ready to start, with all the underclothing you have, by six to-morrow morning. We shall go to Hull by rail, and I will see to it that your top-sails are made all right.”
“Wery good, sir.”