CHAPTER VI. The Plebeian.
Sir Thomas Harrison sat at a mahogany roll-top desk, big enough and broad enough to accommodate a brace of men, even if both were as burly as he. His feet, stoutly and shiningly booted, were planted, toes pressing down and heels tilted up, in the soft pile of his office rug. A great, clean window behind him, edged with fairy spectra where the sun found a prism in the bevelling of the glass, flooded the office with light.
"Let a lit-tle sun-shine in," Sir Thomas had hummed, with apparent joviality, to the old hymn tune, as, a moment before, he had shot the window-blind noisily up to the top of the sash. There had, however, been an ominous note beneath his outwardly genial, toneless chant, as he had glanced through a challenging eye-corner at his secretary, who had previously tiptoed around and pulled down the shade to cut off the sun that was shining blindingly in his eyes where he sat typing.
"Don't be all night with that letter, Evans," said Sir Thomas, creaking his swivel chair in a way that made Evans—a nervous father of five, who sat up patiently until between 2 and 4 a.m., three nights a week, minding the youngsters, while his wife, who was young and skittish, "took in" all the dances—writhe in his seat; "show us some speed, ken't you, for once."
"Yes, sir," said Evans, who had only just finished taking dictation. He was a very rapid stenographer—he had to be, or he wouldn't have been long with Sir Thomas Harrison—and the keys of his machine, on its noise-deadening pad, pattered away like a rain-shower on a pane.
Sir Thomas Harrison squared his elbows before him and stared hard and embarrassingly at his clerk while the latter worked, until the concentration of his stare made Evans' eyelids flutter up and down nervously. This was Sir Thomas' way of exercising what he termed his "pur-rsonal power, sir".
"They ken't a one of 'em resist it," he was won't to recount, "no, sir, not a one of 'em. It gets 'em, every time."
In appearance, Sir Thomas Harrison was both tall and stout. His stoutness was concealed, however, by skilful tailoring; and the youthful lines given to his clothing, together with the way his coarse black hair was combed back from his forehead, made him look, to the casual eye at least, two decades younger than his fifty-two years. He had eyes like a bulldog; a little flat nose, blunt and crooked at the tip; a stiff, close-cropped moustache; a month that blathered redly when he conversed; and a broad, rough blue jowl. Beer had made his face pouchy, and barbers' cosmetics had given his skin the appearance of old canvas.
Evans finished the letter, whipped it out of his machine, stepped briskly over, and handed it to his employer. Sir Tom snatched it, thrust it cracklingly down on the blotter before him, and commenced to read. At the very first line, something met his disapproval; but he merely made a mental note of this, moulded his face into approving lines, and went on reading. He knew Evans, who was watching him a little anxiously, would conclude by his expression that the letter was all right, and would commence to put his things away and close up his desk to go home. Sir Thomas, in fact, protracted his reading of the letter, holding his pen poised as if to sign it, until Evans had his desk closed up and had reached up to the hook behind him for his hat.