“Ministerial business.... Where is Mr Zuigman?” This to the messenger.
“Gone away, sir.”
“Tell him to come here immediately.”
But after his highly important activity in his superior’s private room, the copying clerk Zuigman had understood that he was in need of some slight recreation, and, alleging a commission in town, he had gone off for a stroll round the square. His immediate superior had given him leave at once. One doesn’t refuse modest requests like that to a man perceptibly high in Van Arlen’s favour.
“What now?” said Van Arlen. “My head is going round. Zuigman must come to my room the very first thing to-morrow morning.”
“Can I help you, Van Arlen? What is it has to be done?”
“Writing, man, writing!—a proposal addressed to the King that will have to come before the Cabinet Council.... I don’t know what to do.”
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I!” said Van Arlen, in consternation.
“Well, a good writing is not your strong point,” laughed Prigson, “otherwise you never would have risen so high. The man with the worst hand gets on best, because they can’t keep him on as a copying clerk. Just give me a pen.”