“Let’s see, what was the last sentiment—the other night up at Daly’s, you know; what was it, Crow?”
“Oh, Doubleday!” cried I, suddenly, in terror at the turn the talk was taking, “would you look at this invoice, please? Only twelve cases are entered, and I’m certain thirteen were shipped.”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed Doubleday, who in business matters was always prompt and serious; “only twelve entered? how’s that? Why, you young idiot!” said he, taking up the paper; “can’t you read what’s straight in front of your nose? ‘A set of samples, not invoiced, in case Number 13.’”
“So it is, to be sure,” exclaimed I, who, of course, knew it all along, and had only raised the alarm in order to interrupt Doubleday’s awkward talk. “Thanks.”
This expedient of mine, disingenuous as it was, was successful. Before Doubleday could get back to his desk and take up the thread of his conversation where he left it, Mr Merrett entered the office. He walked straight up to Jack’s desk, and said, heartily, “Well, Smith, my man, we’re glad to see you back. Are you quite well again?”
“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said Smith, rising to his feet, and flushing with pleasure at this unexpected attention from the head of the firm.
I felt quite as proud as he did, and still more so when presently Mr Barnacle arrived, and after first looking over his letters and glancing at his Times, touched the bell and said he wished to speak to Smith.
“They’re going to make a partner of you,” said Doubleday, mockingly, as he delivered the message. “Never mind; you won’t forget your old servants, I know.”
“Talking of partners,” said Harris, of the Imports, over the screen, when Jack had gone in obedience to the summons, “we’re to have the new chap here next week.”
“What’s his name?” asked Doubleday.