“Yes; but I can’t do it with that. Wouldn’t some blotting—”
“Blotting-paper!—the firm’s blotting-paper to wipe up his messes! What do you think of that, all of you? Come, out with your handkerchief!”
Things looked threatening. I saw it was no use resisting. Even the Imports were standing on their stools and looking over the screen. So I took out my handkerchief and, with a groan, plunged it into the spilt ink.
Doubleday and the clerks evidently appreciated this act of devotion, and encouraged me with considerable laughter. My handkerchief and my hand were soon both the colour of the fluid they were wiping up, and my frame of mind was nearly as black.
“Now then,” said Doubleday, “aren’t you nearly done? See if there’s any gone down the crack there. Is there?”
I stooped down to inspect the crack in question, and as I did so Mr Doubleday adroitly slipped his pen under my soaking handkerchief, and, by a sudden jerk, lifted it right into my face.
At the same moment the door opened and Mr Barnacle entered! He looked round for a moment sharply, and then, passing on to the inner-room, said, “Doubleday, bring the two new office-boys into my room.”
If I had heard just the sentence of death pronounced on me I could hardly have been more horrified. My face and hand were like the face and hand of a negro, my collar and shirt were spotted and smeared all over with ink, and even my light hair was decorated with black patches. And in this guise I was to make my first appearance before my masters! Jack Smith’s expression of amazement and horror as he caught sight of me only intensified my own distress, and Doubleday’s stern “Now you’re in for it!” sounded hopelessly prophetic.
I could do nothing. To wipe my face with my clean hand, with the tail of my jacket, with my shirt-sleeve, could do no good. No; I was in for it and must meet my doom!
But I determined to make one expiring effort to escape it.