“Please, sir,” I cried, as we came to the door and before we entered, “I’m very sorry, but my face is all over ink. May I wash it before I come in?”
I was vaguely conscious of the titters of the clerks behind me, of the angry grip of Doubleday on one side of me, and of Smith’s solemn and horrified face on the other, and the next moment I was standing with my friend in front of Mr Barnacle’s awful desk.
He regarded me sternly for a moment or two, during which I suffered indescribable anguish of mind.
“What is the meaning of this?” said he. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, please, sir,” cried I, almost beseechingly, “I’m so sorry. I was wiping up some ink, and got some on my face. I couldn’t help.”
Mr Barnacle looked angry and impatient.
“This is no place for nonsense,” said he.
“Really I couldn’t help,” I pleaded.
There must have been some traces of earnestness visible, I fancy, on my inky face, for I saw Mr Barnacle look at me curiously as I spoke, while there was the faintest perceptible twitch at the corners of his lips.
“Go and wash at once,” he said, sternly.