The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife by Martin Armstrong Read Free Book Online

peaches at one and six each before his feet. Mr. Darby trampled them underfoot with as little compunction as the Juggernaut.
    It was only when he had turned into the entrance ofNumber Thirty Seven, nearly knocking down an errand-boy as he did so, and had sounded his daily knell of servitude on the loose tread of the third step, that Mr. Darby suddenly came to himself and climbed the long flight to the office door, the obedient, efficient, and punctual little servant of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, and, as regards the world below, a totally negligible dust-mote in the swarming population of Newchester-on-Dole. The clock of St. John’s struck nine as he fished out his key-ring and opened the door. As he did so, he heard footsteps far below him. It was McNab and Pellow, the two clerks, following close upon his heels as usual.
    Mr. Darby had taken the letters from the letter-box behind the door and removed his hat and coat when the footsteps reached the top landing. He hung his coat up hurriedly, for he always made a point of doing this before the clerks entered. To do so he was obliged to stand on tiptoe, and this, he felt, was a little out of keeping with his dignity as managing clerk. Not that Mr. Darby stood unduly on his dignity. He was on friendly terms with both the young men: he liked them and they liked him; in fact the general office of Messrs. Lamb & Marston was a quiet and happy family.
    He opened the door of the general office and went in. Their voices in the lobby brought life to the empty office, and next moment they joined him. ‘Good morning, Mr. Darby!’ ‘Good morning, Mr. Darby!’ ‘Good morning both! ’ replied Mr. Darby. He took the letters to his desk, opened them, glanced through them, and laid them on one or another of three separate piles. The clerks collected their T squares, set squares and other paraphernalia, lifted on to their high desks heavy drawing boards on which half-finished plans were pinned, and perching themselves on their high stools set to work.
    In a few minutes Mr. Darby turned on his stool. ‘Here you are, my boy!’ Pellow, a pleasant, red-faced, ginger-haired youth of nineteen, left his stool and took from Mr. Darby one of the piles of letters. It was his duty to take them to Mr. Marston’s room and lay them, ready for his arrival, on his desk, and at the same time to give an eye to the fire.Mr. Darby, when the boy’s back was turned, stretched himself and passed a hand slowly across his forehead.
    â€˜Not feeling quite the thing, Mr. Darby?’ McNab enquired.
    â€˜No, not exactly,’ said Mr. Darby. Then his voice dropped to a confidential tone. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he admitted, ‘I had rather a … ah … stiff night last night. A little … well … a commemoration dinner.’
    â€˜It’s a rotten feeling,’ said McNab sympathetically, and his pale, bony, clean-shaven face crowned by the shock of dishevelled black hair, suggested that he had undergone similar sufferings far more frequently than Mr. Darby. ‘Now, if you’ll take my tip, you’ll have a small bottle of Bass at dinner-time. That’ll do the trick.’
    â€˜Bass?’ said Mr. Darby, flinching a little.
    â€˜Yes, a Bass,’ McNab persisted. ‘Hair of the dog, as the saying is. You may not like the idea now, but take my word for it, Mr. Darby, you’ll be as right as rain after it.’
    â€˜Indeed!’ said Mr. Darby. ‘Really now! Well, perhaps I’ll try it, McNab. Anything to … ah …!’ Mr. Darby made gestures indicating the removal of cobwebs from his face and hair. The door opened. Young Pellow returned and put an end to the subject.
    â€˜A Bass!’ thought Mr. Darby to himself. ‘Hair of the dog …!’ he chuckled inwardly, feeling for the first time that he really was a bit of a lad. That aspect of his misadventure had not struck him before. It put a new