“I wonder at Whipcord standing up to you,” said Crow. “He’s such a quiet fellow, and doesn’t know in the least what to do with his hands.”
“He had the best of me,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know. It doesn’t do to trust to appearances. If it did one might suppose he had—rather. I hope you’ll ask me up when you have the return match.”
I didn’t see much fun in those witticisms, which, however, appeared to afford great merriment to the company generally, so much so that when Mr Barnacle presently opened the door he caught the whole counting-house laughing.
“What tomfoolery is this?” he demanded, looking angrily round. “You seem to forget, all of you, that you come here to work, and not to play. If you want to play you can go somewhere else. There!” So saying he passed into his private room, slamming the door ill-temperedly behind him.
This was not encouraging for me, who, of course, had to report myself, and contradict the rumours regarding my illness.
I gave him a quartet of an hour or so to quiet down, partly in the hope that Mr Merrett might meanwhile arrive. But as that event did not happen, and as Doubleday informed me that the advertisements for a new clerk were to be sent out that morning, I made up my mind there was nothing to be gained by further delay, and therefore made the venture.
I found myself anything but comfortable as I stood before Mr Barnacle’s desk, and stammeringly began my statement.
“Please, sir—”
“Why, what is this, sir?” demanded Mr Barnacle, sternly. “We were told yesterday you were ill.”