Gallions Reach

more about him. He had been the master of an opium smuggler, and he was the origin of the firm. When a visitor is left in the waiting-room of the modern house of Perriam, and is idle and impatient sufficiently long to feel a diminution of his consequence, to feel the matter of his call dwindle to something which is scarcely worth discussion in circumstances so imposing, he then has time to note a portrait of the founder of that house, above a Nankin jar on the mantelpiece; a stylish head, in a rakish marine cap garnished around with an escape of abundant hair, with sombre but truculent eyes, side-whiskers, and a shaven mouth and chin which might once or more have confronted mutiny, and, without a word, caused it to shuffle backwards a little in irresolution. Those eyes would dwell from their height and from the past upon a visitor, with fixity and stern indictment, and thus he might feel the less opinionative when at last a member of the house of Perriam snatched a brief release from matters more urgent to incline a polite ear to his humble petition. Beyond the waiting-room, and within the sanctuary itself, was a corridor of frosted glass and mahogany. The closed doors on either hand bore the names of the principals. One announced Mr. Colet. There were others, and the last of them, just where the office broadened into a spacious array of desks and clerks, had the name of Mr. Perriam upon it.

It was an interior of imperturbable calm. It was a house whose establishment and power was unquestioned. A voice was never raised there. It would have been impious to fracture its lucid stillness with a rude note. In its hush the pens could be heard adding to the treasure of numerals. The clerks were bent over their desks with devout heads. When one of them was wanted his bell rang on the ceiling overhead, a brief peremptory summons to the principal’s room. The bell in Mr. Colet’s room whirred, and his door of frosted glass opened instantly. Colet crossed the corridor swiftly and deferentially. He wondered what was the trouble now. That sudden noise in the plaster heaven of the office was the harsh and imperious warning of absolutism. Now what the hell was the matter with Him?

Mr. Perriam was standing at his table. He did not look up as his assistant entered. He continued to regard, in disfavour, some papers on his table, upon which one hand was outspread. He was a tall, middle-aged man, bowed forward as if by the great weight of his affairs on his broad shoulders, and he bore a disconcerting likeness to the portrait in the waiting-room, except that he was bald, and his florid and massive face was clean-shaven. Colet waited, an insurgent antipathy to the arrogance of that grim face mingling with his apprehension as to what it was going to announce. This confusion of feelings constricted his throat. He feared he might not be able to answer the brute, if he had an answer to make. Perriam paid his men well. Colet’s chair was an enviable seat.

“I’ve told you before, Colet, I’ve told you before, that I cannot allow our men at the warehouse to argue with us about the hours they will work. That’s our affair. Why have you passed this question on to me? Why haven’t you settled it?”

Mr. Perriam did not look up. He waited, with his expression of disfavour downcast to the offending papers.

Colet fingered the point of his neat little brown beard. Mr. Perriam’s logic was certainly right. But was that all? Jimmy had been induced to grow that beard through the firm suggestion of the rigid mouth and aggressive chin of the portrait of the master of the opium clipper, a portrait he had admired as a boy in that office, though of late years his admiration had been maintained only by the strength of habit and the traditions of the office. His own red lips were really dissimilar, and not in the tradition. His friendly hazel eyes were now troubled. He did not answer at once. He only moved his feet. He could not think of words which would help him.

“Well?” demanded Mr. Perriam. The principal fumbled a glance at his assistant’s face, and then dodged his eyes away to the wall beyond, for Mr. Perriam never looked at a fellow-creature for more than a second. Mr. Perriam remained still, though Colet noticed that his watch-guard was trembling, as though through the suppressed energy of a powerful engine. It kept the mind active and resourceful, working for this man, but Colet used to insist to himself that this was good for the mind. Kept it ready and taut.

“I’m waiting, Colet.”

“Isn’t it outside my province, Mr. Perriam? Their hours are fixed by their union. You know that. Isn’t it for you to say whether or not you’ll sack the lot?”

“Don’t put it on to me. What are you here for? You seem unable to face your job, young man. I was afraid I’d noticed it. I don’t like it. You haven’t tackled those fellows. Are you afraid of them?”

“I’m on good terms with them.⁠ ⁠…”

“Your good terms! I’m not interested in them; my work must be done my way. This house can’t waste time disputing with a gang of warehousemen. When I put you over that department it was to serve Perriams, not our labourers.”

“Their union.⁠ ⁠…”

“Now you need recognise no unity except that with us. That is what pays you and me.” Mr. Perriam struck the papers before him with his palm. “I care less for this document than for the way you have handled it. That is serious, in my opinion. You know, Colet, you are being tried? Very well. Here is failure, in a better post. You would be foolish to fail there too soon, don’t you think?” Mr. Perriam thrust the papers across to Colet. They cracked like a shot. “Let your