In a very small office, situate in a very large warehouse¹, in that great storehouse of the world’s wealth, Tooley Street, sat a clerk named Edward Hooper.

 

Among his familiar friends Edward was better known by the name of Ned.

 

He was seated on the top of a tall three-legged stool, which, to judge from the uneasy and restless motions of its occupant, must have been a peculiarly uncomfortable seat indeed.

 

There was a clock on the wall just opposite to Ned’s desk, which that young gentleman was in the habit of consulting frequently—very frequently—and comparing with his watch, as if he doubted its veracity². This was very unreasonable³, for he always found that the two timepieces told the truth; at least, that they agreed with each other. Nevertheless, in his own private heart, Ned Hooper thought that clock—and sometimes called it—“the slowest piece of ancient furniture he had ever seen.”

 

During one of Ned’s comparisons of the two timepieces the door opened, and Mr Auberly entered, with a dark cloud, figuratively speaking, on his brow.

 

At the same moment the door of an inner office opened, and Mr Auberly’s head clerk, who had seen his employer’s approach through the dusty window, issued forth⁴ and bowed respectfully, with a touch of condolence in his air, as he referred with much regret to the fire at Beverly Square, and hoped that Miss Auberly was not much the worse of her late alarm.

 

“Well, she is not the better for it,” said Mr Auberly; “but I hope she will be quite well soon. Indeed, the doctor assures me of this, if care is taken of her. I wish that was the only thing on my mind just now; but I am perplexed⁵ about another matter, Mr Quill⁶. Are you alone?”

 

“Quite alone, sir,” said Quill, throwing open the door of the inner office.

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