“A meeting of directors of the Select Agency Corporation”—by the way, was it “Limited”? He didn’t very clearly understand what that meant. Still, most companies had the word after their name, and he made a note to inquire of Mr Medlock whether it applied to them—“was held on October 31st at the company’s offices. Present, the Bishop of S— in the chair, Messrs Medlock, Blank, M.P., So-and-so, etcetera. The secretary, Mr Cruden, having been introduced, took his seat and thanked the directors for their confidence. It was reported that the receipts for the last month had been (well, say) £1,000, including £50 deposited against shares by the new secretary, and the expenses £750. Mr Medlock reported the acquisition of a large bankrupt stock of clothing, which it was proposed to offer privately to a number of clergymen and others as per a list furnished by the right reverend the chairman. The following cheques were drawn:—Rent for offices for a month, £5; printing and postage, £25; secretary’s salary for one month, £12 10 shillings; ditto, interest on the £50 deposit, 4 shillings 2 pence; office-boy (one month), £2; Mr Medlock for bankrupt stock of clothing, £150; etcetera, etcetera. The secretary suggested various improvements in the offices and fittings, and was requested to take any necessary steps. After sundry other routine business the Board adjourned.”
This literary experiment concluded, Reginald, who after the fatigues and excitement of the day felt ready for sleep, decided to adjourn too.
“Do you stay here all night?” said he to Love.
“Me? You and me sleeps upstairs.”
“I’m afraid there’s no room up there for two persons,” said Reginald; “you had better go home to-night, Love, and be here at nine in the morning.”
“Go on—as if I ’ad lodgin’s in the town. If you don’t want me I know one as do. Me and the chemist’s boy ain’t too big for the attick.”
“Very well,” said Reginald, “you had better go up to bed now, it’s late.”
“Don’t you think you’re having a lark with me,” said the boy; “’tain’t eleven, and I ain’t done this here Tigerskin yet. There’s a lump of reading in it, I can tell you. When he’d killed them tigers he rigged hisself up in their skins, and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Reginald. “I’m not going to let you stay up all night reading that rot. Cut up to bed now, do you hear?”
Strange to say, the boy obeyed. There was something about Reginald which reduced him to obedience, though much against his will. So he shambled off with his book under his arm, secretly congratulating himself that the bed in the attic was close to the window, so that he would be able to get a jolly long read in the morning.