The great first day at the Apollo Fire Office soon came, and my Aunt Augusta seemed to be quite moved as, having discussed two poached eggs, a roll, butter, toast, and marmalade, and two cups of coffee, I went forth in my top-hat and tail-coat to earn my living. Women are rum. She’d worked like anything to get me this great appointment, and yet, when I started off in the best possible style to begin, Aunt Augusta seemed distinctly sniffy! I took an omnibus from Oxford Street, having previously walked down Harley Street, which is a great haunt of the medical profession. Merely to walk down it and read the names is a solemn thing to do, and makes you thank God for being pretty well.

In due course I arrived at my destination, in Threadneedle Street in the very heart of the City of London. First you come to the Bank of England—an imposing edifice quite black with centuries of London fog—and opposite this is the Royal Exchange, whose weather-vane is a grasshopper covered with gold and of enormous size. Often and often, from the Country Department of the Apollo I used to look up at it and long to be in the green places where real grasshoppers occur so freely.

But, to return, I walked into the Apollo, which comes next to the Bank of England, and found there was a book on the first floor of the office, in which every member of the staff had to sign his name on arriving. When the hour of ten struck, a clerk came forward, dipped his pen into the red ink, picked up a ruler and drew a line across the page. This was to separate the clerks who were in time from those who were late. If you were under the red line more than once or twice in a month, you heard about it unfavourably.

There was an amazing record of a wonderful old clerk who had worked in the office for forty-five years and never once been under the line! But at last there came a day when the hour of ten rang out and the old clerk had not come. Everybody was very excited over it, and they actually gave him ten minutes’ grace, which was not lawful, but a sporting and a proper thing to do in my opinion. However, all was without avail; for he did not come, and the red line had to be reluctantly drawn. Everybody almost trembled to know what the old clerk would do when he arrived to find the record of forty-five years was ended; but the old clerk never did arrive, because a telegram came, a few minutes after the drawing of the line, to say that he had died in his sleep at his wife’s side, and therefore could not get up at six o’clock, which was his rule. It was rather sad in a way.

To show, however, that everybody didn’t feel the same rare spirit of punctuality as the old clerk, there was another interesting story of the red line and a chap who arrived late on his very first day. He actually began his official career under the red line. He must have been a man like the great Napoleon in some ways. A very self-willed sort of man, in fact. He only stopped in the Apollo a fortnight, and then was invited to seek another sphere of activity. He was a nephew of one of the Directors and died in the Zulu War. A pity for him he had not been of a clerk-like turn of mind.

I signed the book in full:

and then a messenger, who wore a blue tail-coat with a glittering disc of silver on his breast, showed me up to the Country Department. It was at the very top of the edifice—a long room with desks arranged in such a way that the light from the stately windows should fall upon them. About thirty-five men of all ages pursued their avocation of making policies in this great room. The Chief had an apartment leading out of this, and usually he sat in great seclusion, pondering over the affairs of the Department. He was a big and a stout man, with a florid face and a beard and mustache of brown hair. His eyes were grey and penetrating. They roamed over the Department sometimes, when he came to the door of his own room; and he saw instantly everything that was going on and noted it down, in a capacious memory, for future use. Everybody liked him, for he was a kind and a good and a patient man, and his ability must have been very great to have reached such a high position; for he was much younger than many other men who were under him. He welcomed me with friendliness and hoped I should settle down and soon take to the work.

He said:

“Be industrious, Mr. Corkey, and let me have the pleasure of reporting favourably when the time comes to give an account of your labours to the Secretary.”

I said:

“Yes, sir, I will do my best.”

He looked at me and smiled.

“A great promise,” he said. “To do your best, Mr. Corkey, is to be one man picked out of a thousand.”

I had no idea, then, that it was such a rare thing to do your best; but he knew. And I found afterwards that it is not only rare but frightfully difficult, and no doubt that is why so few people do it.

Mr. Westonshaugh, for that was the name of this good man, called a subordinate, and a fair, pale clerk in the prime of life, with a large amber mustache and a high forehead, responded to the summons.

“This is Mr. Corkey,” said the Chief. “He goes into your division, Mr. Blades. I need not ask you to look after him and indicate the duties. He passed a good examination and is quite ready to set to work.”

I followed Mr. Blades and walked down the great room. There were two desks apart in one corner at which old, bald, spectacled men sat, and at the other desks, already mentioned, the full strength of the Department was already busily occupied.

I found an empty desk waiting for me beside Mr. Blades, and I could see by his manner, which was kindly but penetrating, that he was considering what sort of clerk I should make. Others also looked at me. One man said “Legs!” referring to mine, which were very long. There was a strange and helpless feeling about it all. I dimly remembered feeling just the same when I first went to Merivale. Mr. Blades called a messenger and bade him bring pens, fill the ink-bottles and fetch blotting-paper and paper-cutter, a ruler, an ink eraser, and other clerkly instruments.

“Your first duty,” he said, “is to copy policies into the books. Here is a pile of policies and they are numbered in order. There are no abbreviations on the actual policy; but abbreviations are allowed in copying them into the books. This saves many hours of time. For instance, the word ‘communicating’ occurs over and over again. So, in copying it, we reduce it to three letters, namely ‘com.’ I will now copy a policy and you can see how I do it.”

Mr. Blades was kindness itself and, indeed, from that day forward I blessed his name. He was a brick. He was fierce certainly, and if angered, as sometimes happened, would utter dreadful imprecations, such as I thought were only to be heard among pirates and other story-book people; but he had a big heart and a very heroic mind. He feared nothing and, though a small man, exhibited great courage on many occasions in his private life, of which he told me when I knew him better. He was married and lived at Bickleigh and had offspring.

I settled to the work and nothing much happened, though I had very often to refer to Mr. Blades. He never minded and was always ready with his wide knowledge, which, of course, extended far beyond the copying that I had to do. In fact, the Department teemed with men of the greatest ability, and not only did every one of them exhibit perfect mastery of the complicated art of drawing-out of insurance policies against fire, but many of them, as I found gradually—in fact, almost every one—had some remarkable talent which was not wanted in their official tasks. Some could draw and some could play various musical instruments; some were very keen sportsmen and understood cricket and football and other branches; and some were great readers and knew all about literature. Some, again, were gardeners and cultivated most beautiful exotics, which they brought to the office to raffle from time to time. Others, again, arranged sweepstakes on horse-races and brightened up the dull routine of official life in this way. Others were volunteers and very keen about soldiering. I hoped that I might find somebody interested in the stage, but curiously enough, though many went to the theatre, none ever wanted to become professional actors.

When the luncheon interval arrived I was allowed to go out for refreshments, and I went and walked about in the City of London. But I did not go farther than the huge figures that beat time over a watchmaker’s shop in Cheapside. It must have been wonderful mechanism, and I should like to have had it explained, but there was no time to go into the shop. And, in any case, I shouldn’t have had the cheek to ask. By a funny chance, near the Royal Exchange I found the identical Murch’s shop, where Mr. Benyon Pepys used to go and have turtle-soup after the labours of signing policies; so I thought that if it suited him so well, it might suit me also. With great presence of mind, however, I first asked the price of a plate, and on hearing it, made some hurried excuse and went back into the street. Turtle-soup is out of the question for beginners in the City of London. I had a Bath bun and a glass of milk instead and then went back to work.

It was after returning that the first thing that I really understood and enjoyed happened at the Apollo. Up till then I felt rather small and helpless and strange. Here was I, like an ant in a nest, but I felt a fool of an ant—good for nothing but to make mistakes and worry Mr. Blades. The huge whirl and rush of business dazed me. I almost heard the thunder of machinery; but I knew really that all the machinery was going on inside the heads of those thirty-five able and industrious men. I expected that they were working for their wives and children and their old, infirm mothers and so on. It was real grim life. It is true there were a few boys there besides me; but they also were able and industrious, if not brilliant, and they were all doing their part in the great machine. Even the messengers were. They were nearly all old, brave, wounded soldiers. I felt the solemnity. I seemed like a mere insect in a solemn cathedral where a mighty service was going on and everybody was doing their appointed part but me. I had spoiled several large sheets of paper and felt a sort of sick feeling that I was not earning my fifty pounds a year, and should soon be told so. I made a calculation on my blotting-paper to see how much money I ought to earn each day. The amount discouraged me and, besides that, I had another sort of animal feeling that I wasn’t getting enough air to breathe. Then, in this dark and despairing moment, there happened a thing that bucked me up and put new life into me. Suddenly I got a terrific smack on the side of the face, and an orange, about half sucked, fell from my cheek upon the page spread before me. It was like a pleasant breath of Merivale. I understood it; I knew how to handle it. For a moment I no longer felt like an insect in some vast cathedral. I was deeply interested and hoped that the man who could do a thing of this sort in a solemn scene like the Country Department of the Apollo Fire Office, might be a real friend to me. It happened that, as I came back from lunching, I had seen a young man with the lid of his desk raised. His head was inside and he was sucking this identical orange that had now hit me in the face. I felt at the time that the man who could suck an orange in the midst of this booming hive of industry must be out of the common. And so he proved to be. He was dark and clean-shaved, with broad shoulders and a purple chin. I knew, therefore, when the orange arrived, who had chucked it, and could not help feeling the purple-chinned young man was a jolly good shot, whatever else he might be. I laughed when the orange hit me, and looked over to him; but he was writing very busily and not a muscle moved. I didn’t dare chuck the half-sucked orange back, for fear of making a boss shot, the consequences of which might have been very serious, because at least three men of considerable age, and one grey, sat between us. So I picked up the orange and got off my stool.

“Sit down! don’t take any notice,” said Mr. Blades, who was trying not to laugh and failing; but I felt that perhaps he didn’t quite understand a thing like this, having passed the stage for it and being married and so on; whereas no doubt the purple-chinned young man, if he could chuck an orange, could also get it back without taking it in the wrong spirit.

A good many chaps watched me and some thought I was going to take the orange into Mr. Westonshaugh; but I just went casually up the room, and when I got to the purple-chinned young man, who was writing away like mad, I stopped and turned suddenly.

“A ripping shot,” I said. “I funked flinging it back for fear of hitting the wrong man.”

Then I squashed down the orange hard on the purple-chinned young man’s head and hooked back to my desk.

“You long-legged young devil!” he shouted, but he wasn’t angry, only surprised. There was rather a row then, because a good many chaps laughed out loud and Mr. Westonshaugh came to his door.

“Not so much noise, gentlemen, please,” he said, and then went in again.

Half an hour afterwards the purple-chinned young man, whose name was Dicky Travers, came up to my desk.

“It’s all right,” he began. “It was a fair score; but how the devil did you know that I threw it? I’ll swear you didn’t see me.”

“I didn’t,” I admitted; “but when I came in from lunch you were sucking it with your head in your desk, so I guessed.”

That man turned out one of my very best and dearest friends in the Apollo Fire Office! He proved to be an athlete of world-wide fame and a member of the London Athletic Club. He had won countless trophies and cups and clocks and cellarettes and salad bowls, and was simply tired of seeing his name in print. He was a champion walker and had on several occasions walked seven miles inside an hour; and two miles in fifteen minutes was mere fun to him!

So ended my first day of work. At four o’clock a good number of the clerks prepared to leave and Mr. Blades told me that I could go. Of course I thanked him very much for all his kindness during the day.

“That’s all right,” he said; “and to-morrow bring an office coat with you and keep that swagger one for out of doors. Let it be a dark colour—in fact, black for choice. It’s better form. And to-morrow I will show you how you can keep your cuffs clean by putting paper over them. Now you put your work into your desk and lock it up and go home. You have made a very decent start.”

I thanked him again and cleared out.

I walked back and spent a very interesting hour looking into the shops and so on. There was a place in High Holborn full of models of steam engines, and I rather longed for one. But it cost three pounds. Besides, I was now, of course, past childish things and thought no more of it. I stopped, too, to see some Blue Coat boys playing “footer” in a playground that was railed off from the street by lofty railings. It was somewhere near the General Post Office, I believe. Some of the chaps, despite their long coats, which they strapped round their waists, played jolly well. I felt it would have been fine to have gone in and had a kick about. But, of course, the days for that were past. It was rather sad in a way. But, there it was—I’d grown up. I had to keep reminding myself of this, and now and then my beastly top-hat fell off and reminded me again. Only it takes a bit of time to realise such a thing. In fact, I’ve heard grey-haired men say that they don’t feel a bit old, though they may be simply fossils really, to the critical eye; so, no doubt, it was natural even for me not to feel that I had grown up, and had now got to face things and run my own show, as well as I could, for evermore. To rub it in, as it were, I had my first shave on the way home. Mr. Blades had advised this course.

Aunt Augusta showed a great deal of interest in the day’s adventures, and next morning I took a dark blue “blazer” to the office. It had the badge of Merivale first footer team on it; but, of course, I made my aunt cut that off. Because, though it meant a good deal at Merivale, to a man earning his own living in a hive of industry, it simply counted for nothing at all.