Courage by Malachi Whitaker. Part 3.
Watch on KineScope.
All at once the door opened and a very little, old, bald man came in. He was breathing quickly, fluffing up the ends of a huge moustache.
He said ‘Good morning,’ and came running forward to shake hands.
‘Miss Allat? I’m Mr Palfreyman, the head clerk, and the cashier too. Oh dear, oh dear, whatever’s happened?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t it wet?’ asked Isabel solemnly.
The little man ran here and there in creaking boots, while Isabel looked at him gravely. Every fresh wet thing he saw made him groan. ‘How lucky, how lucky that we put everything in the safe at night. All but the big guard books and the letter books. They’re sodden. Oh dear, oh!’
‘There’s been a fire, you know, said Mr Palfreyman, looking at the young girl sharply. ‘Now, why wasn’t I informed? There’ll be young Mr Julian worrying his head off, and nothing being done about it. I could have been down at five o’clock if necessary, you know. I’ve been with the firm for forty years. But Mr Julian will have the police call him if anything happens, and they always used to call me. He’s been a different man since his father died last year. You must obey young Mr Julian’, said the old man, wagging his fingers and blowing out his large moustache with three sharp breaths.
‘But where’s that young boy, that Reggie?’ he continued testily. Then he stopped to say approvingly, ‘I see you hung your things on the proper peg. That’s right, Miss Allat, that’s right. Begin as you mean to go on. Now I’m privileged. I hang mine in the private office,’ he said with gratification in his voice. Then the thoughts of fire and of the boy Reggie, who was still missing, overcame him, and he went into the private office groaning, ‘Whatever will Mr Julian say?’ Isabel went to the door and looked hopefully for Reggie, but he was not to be seen. It seemed very damp and chilly in the office, in spite of the coal fire, which had been lighted for some time and was now black and rather caked. She wanted to poke it, but did not dare, so she went back and stood looking at it. Very soon another man came in. He wore glasses, and was so thin that his clothes hung upon him as if he were a coat-hanger.
‘Hullo, he said, I’m Bentley.’ He glanced towards the private office where Mr Palfreyman, who had hung up his things, was now opening the mail with ostentatious cracklings. ‘I’ve only been here fourteen years, so I hang my things beside yours.’ He slid round the barrier, which stood like a mahogany counter a couple of yards from the door, hung up his things, coughed loudly and said, ‘Anything for me this morning, Mr Palfreyman?’
‘We shall see. We shall see,’ returned the other, distantly. ‘You realize there has been another fire, Mr Bentley?’
‘No, I hadn’t noticed it, said Bentley, winking at the girl and rubbing his thin grey hair with a handkerchief. In spite of the cold, he was sweating. He went over and poked the fire. ‘You’re the first girl that’s ever been in this place. Did you know?’ he whispered. ‘The old man wouldn’t have’em at any price. We’ve always had lads before, but they get sick of old Pompey Snuffbox in there and sneak off to better jobs with a list of our customers’ names in their pockets. But young Mr Julian’s got the business now.’ He spun round on his heel, with the poker still in his hand, winked, and went on poking the dark coals.
‘What do you mean “young Mr Julian”?’ asked Isabel, speaking in a whisper. ‘I saw a Mr Julian, but he was old and quite bald on the top!
“That’s young Mr Julian, said Bentley. ‘Give us a chance. He’s not fifty yet. I’m sixty-two, Palfreyman’s seventy-three, but you’d think he was ninety, wouldn’t you?’