But somehow everything was so novel, and I was so curiously disposed, that I could not prevent my thoughts wandering a good deal, or listening to the constant running fire of small talk that was going on among my fellow-clerks. And this was all the less to be wondered at, since I myself was a prominent topic of conversation.
Mr Doubleday was a most curious mixture of humour, pomposity, and business, which made it very hard to know how exactly to take him. If I dared to laugh at a joke, he fired up, and ordered me angrily to get on with my work. And if I did become engrossed in the figures and entries before me, he was sure to trip me up with some act or speech of pleasantry.
“Why don’t you stick a nib on the end of your nose and write with it?” he inquired, as I was poring over an account-book in front of me, trying to make out the rather minute hieroglyphics contained therein.
I withdrew my nose, blushingly, to a more moderate distance, a motion which appeared greatly to entertain my fellow-clerks, whose amusement only added to my confusion.
“Hullo! I say,” said Doubleday, “no blushing allowed here, is there, Wallop?”
“Rather not. No one ever saw you blush,” replied Mr Wallop.
This turned the laugh against Doubleday, and I, despite my bashfulness, was indiscreet enough to join in it.
Mr Doubleday was greatly incensed.
“Get on with your work, do you hear? you young cad!” he cried. “Do you suppose we pay you eight bob a week to sit there and grin? How many accounts have you checked, I’d like to know?”
“Six,” I said, nervously, quite uneasy at Mr Doubleday’s sudden seriousness.