“We can’t complain, sir,” said Erb meaningly, “of the weather.” The clock up high on the wall of the office ticked on, and Erb endeavoured to marshal his arguments in his mind afresh.
“That little job is finished,” said the Chief, dabbing the blotting paper on his last signature. “I wonder how many times I sign my name in the course of a day; if only I had as many sovereigns. Let me see, what was it we wanted to talk to each other about?” Erb produced the memorial, and stood cap in hand as the Chief read it with an air that suggested no previous knowledge of the communication. “Oh, yes,” said the Chief, “of course. I remember now. Something about the hours of duty.”
“And wages,” said Erb, “et cetera.”
“I get so much to think of,” went on the Chief, autobiographically, “that unless I put it all down on a memo I forget about it. Now when I was your age. What are you, Barnes?”
“Twenty-one next birthday, sir.”
“Ah,” sighed the Chief, “a fine thing to be one and twenty, you’ve got all the world before you. You ought to be as happy as a lord at your age.”
“The ’appiness that a lord would extract from twenty-three and six a week would go in a waistcoat pocket.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted the other, cheerfully. “But, bless my soul, there are plenty worse off. A man can grub along very well on it so long as he is not ambitious.”
“And why shouldn’t a man be ambitious?” demanded Erb. “Some people raise themselves up from small beginnings”—the Chief took up his paper cutter—“and all honour to them for it.” The Chief laid down the paper cutter. “It must be a great satisfaction to look back when they are getting their three or four ’undred a year and think of the time when they were getting only a quid a week. It must make ’em proud of themselves, and their wife and their women folk must be proud of ’em too.”
“Married, Barnes?”