In a well-known firm in Sydney the clerks are presided over by a
rather impetuous manager, whose violent fits of temper very often
dominate his reason. For instance, the other day he was wiring into
one of them about his bad work.
“Look here, Jones,” he thundered, “this won’t do. These figures are a
perfect disgrace to a clerk! I could get an office boy to make better
figures than those, and I tell you I won’t have it! Now, look at that
five, it looks just like a three. What do you mean, sir, by making
such beastly figures? Explain!”
“I--er beg your pardon, sir,” suggested the trembling clerk, his
heart fluttering terribly, “but--er well, you see, sir, it is three.”
“A three?” roared the manager; “why, it looks just like a five!”