Every solicitor's office has its great client, whose affairs,
watchfully managed by the senior partner in person, take precedence of
all else, and whom every member of the staff regards with a particular
respect caught from the principals themselves. Messrs. Curpet and
Smythe were London agents to the tremendous legal firm of Pontifex,
of Manchester, said to enjoy the largest practice in the midlands;
and they were excusably proud of the fact. One of the first lessons
that a new clerk learnt in the establishment at New Serjeant's Court
was that, at no matter what expenditure of time and trouble, Pontifex
business, comprising some scores of separate causes, must be transacted
so irreproachably that old Mr. Pontifex, by repute a terrible fellow,
might never have cause of complaint. On those mornings, happily rare,
when a querulous letter did by chance arrive from Manchester, the whole
office trembled apprehensively, and any clerk likely to be charged with
negligence began at once to consider the advisability of seeking a new
situation.
The Pontifex bill of costs was made up annually in June. As the time
drew near for presenting it, more and more clerks were pressed into its
service, until at the last everyone found himself engaged, in one way
or another, upon this colossal account.
When Richard arrived at the office, he found the immense pile of
white foolscap sheets upon his table, and next it the still higher
pile of blue sheets forming the draft bill. All was finished except
the checking of the figures and the final castings. As the cashier
and accountant, he was ultimately responsible for this. He parcelled
out the sheets, keeping the largest share for himself, and the work
began. In every room there was a low muttering of figures, broken
by an occasional oath when someone happened to lose the thread of
an addition. The principals hovered about, full of solicitude and
encouragement, and, according to custom on such occasions, lunch was
served on the premises at the firm's expense. Richard continued to
add while eating, keeping his head clear and seldom making a mistake;
nothing existed for him but the column of pounds, shillings, and pence
under his eyes.
The pile of finished sheets grew, and soon the office boys, commanded
by Jenkins, were passing the earlier portion of the bill through
the copying-press. As the hours went by, the helpers from other
departments, no longer required, went back to their own neglected
duties, and Richard did the last additions alone. At length the bill
was absolutely finished, and he carried it himself to the stationer's
to be sewed. In half an hour it came back, and he laid it ceremoniously
before Mr. Curpet. The grand total went round the office, leaping
from lip to lip like the result of an important parliamentary poll.
It was higher than in any previous year by nearly a thousand pounds.
Each of the clerks took a personal pride in its bigness, and secretly
determined to petition for an increase of salary at the first
opportunity. They talked together in groups, discussing details, while
a comfortable lassitude spread from room to room.
Richard stood by the open window, absently watching the pigeons and the
cleaners at the Law Courts opposite. In a corner an office boy, new to
his work, was stamping envelopes with slow precision. Jenkins, with one
foot on a table, was tying a shoe lace. It had struck six ten minutes
ago, and everyone was gone except Mr. Smythe, whose departure Jenkins
awaited with impatience. The hot day subsided slowly to a serene and
lovely evening, and the customary noises of the Strand ascended to
Richard like the pastoral hum of a valley to a dweller on a hill, not
breaking but rather completing the stillness of the hour. Gradually his
brain freed itself from the obsession of figures, though he continued
to muse vaguely over the bill, which had just been posted. It would
certainly be settled by cheque within a week, for Messrs. Pontifex were
invariably prompt. That cheque, which he himself would enter and pay
into the bank, amounted to as much as he could earn in twenty years,
if he remained a clerk. He tried to imagine the scene in which, at
some future date, he would give Mr. Curpet notice of his intention to
resign his position, explaining that he preferred to support himself by
literature. The ineffable sweetness of such a triumph! Could he ever
realise it? He could, he must; the alternative of eternal clerkship
was not to be endured. His glance fell on Jenkins. That poor, gay,
careless, vulgar animal would always be a clerk. The thought filled him
with commiseration, and also with pride. Fancy Jenkins writing a book
called "The Psychology of the Suburbs"!
"I'm going to smoke," Jenkins said; "be blowed to Bertie dear." (Mrs.
Smythe had once addressed her husband in the office as "Bertie dear,"
and thenceforth that had been his name among the staff.) Richard made
no answer. When a minute later Jenkins, discreetly directing his puffs
to the open window, asked him for the titles of one or two of Zola's
novels in English, and their price, he gave the required information
without turning round and in a preoccupied tone. It was his wish
at that moment to appear dreamy. Perhaps a hint of the intellectual
difference between them would suggest itself even to Jenkins. Suddenly
a voice that seemed to be Mr. Smythe's came from the other side of the
glass partition which separated the room from the general corridor.
"Jenkins, what the devil do you mean by smoking in the office?"
The pipe vanished instantly, and Jenkins faced his accuser in some
confusion, only to find that he had been victimised. It was Mr. Aked.
"You're as gassy as ever, I see," Jenkins said with a shade of
annoyance. Mr. Aked laughed, and then began to cough badly, bending
forward with flushed cheeks.
"Surely you shouldn't have left the house to-day," Richard said,
alarmed.
"Why not?" The retort was almost fierce.
"You're not fit."
"Fiddlesticks! I've only got a bit of a cough."
Richard wondered what he had called for.
Jenkins began to discuss with him the shortcomings of Mr. Smythe as an
employer, and when that fruitful subject had been exhausted there was a
silence.
"Coming home?" Mr. Aked asked Richard, who at once prepared to leave.
"By the way, Larch, how's the mash?" Jenkins wore his archest manner.
"What mash?"
"Why, the girl you said you were going to see yesterday afternoon."
"I never said--" Richard began, looking nervously towards Mr. Aked.
"Oh, no, of course not. Do you know, Mr. Aked, he's begun his little
games with the women. These fellows from the country--so shy and all
that--they're regular cautions when you come to know them." But Mr.
Aked made no response.
"I was thinking you might as well come down to-morrow night instead of
Friday," he said quietly to Richard, who had busied himself with the
locking of a safe.
"To-morrow? Certainly, I shall be very glad," Richard answered.
Evidently Mr. Aked was as eager as himself to make a beginning of the
book. No doubt that was why he had called. Surely, together they would
accomplish something notable!
Jenkins had climbed on a lofty stool. He gave vent to a whistle,
and the other two observed that his features were twisted into an
expression of delirious mirth.
"Aha! aha!" he grinned, looking at Richard. "I begin to perceive.
You're after the pretty niece, eh, Master Larch? And a nice plump
little thing she is, too! She came here once to fetch uncle home."
Mr. Aked sprang instantly forward and cuffed Jenkins' ear.
"It's not the first time I've had to do that, nor the second," he said.
"I suppose you never will learn to behave yourself." Jenkins could
easily have thrashed the old man--he really looked old to-day--and no
consideration for the latter's age would have restrained him from doing
so, had not the habit of submission acquired during those years when
Mr. Aked ruled the outer office proved stronger than his rage. As it
was, he took up a safe position behind the stool and contented himself
with words.
"You're a beauty, you are!" he began. "How's the red-haired A. B. C.
girl getting on? You know, the one that lost her place at the Courts'
restaurant through you. If she hadn't been a fool, she'd have brought
an action for breach of promise. And how many more are there? I
wonder--"
Mr. Aked made an uncertain dart after him, but he vanished through
the doorway, only to encounter Mr. Smythe. With a rather servile "'d
afternoon, sir," to the latter, Mr. Aked walked rapidly out of the
office.
"What the devil are you all up to?" Mr. Smythe inquired crossly. "Is
Aked after money, Larch?"
"Not at all, Mr. Smythe. He only called to see me."
"You are a friend of his, are you?"
"Well, I know him."
"H'm! Jenkins, come and take a letter."
As Richard hurried down into the court, he felt exceedingly angry with
Mr. Aked. Why could not the man be more dignified? Everyone seemed to
treat him with contempt, and the cause was not altogether obscure. He
had no dignity. Richard felt personally aggrieved.
Neither of them spoke of the recent incident as they walked down to
the Temple station. Mr. Aked, indeed, said nothing; a fit of coughing
occupied him. Somehow Richard's faith in "The Psychology of the
Suburbs" had lessened a little during the last half-hour.