The chicken was roasted to a chip; the potatoes were sodden; and, in consequence, Mr. Copley did get a violent indigestion, to which his wife was obliged to minister with soda-mint and bismuth and hot-water bottles, voicing her opinion of him at every application. Not until six o’clock in the morning did he fall into a heavy and unrefreshing slumber, from which he was aroused at a quarter to eight by hearing. Mrs. Copley say:
“If you are going to the office today, Frederick, you had better get up. If you are not going, you may as well say so, and I will send a message. I have called you three times, and your breakfast is getting cold.”
Mr. Copley, with a bilious headache over his right eye and a nasty taste in his mouth, would gladly have authorized her to send the message-gladly have turned over upon his pillow and buried his woes in sleep, but the recollection of the Nutrax half-double and the fifty pounds rushed over him in a flood and swept him groaning from between the sheets. Seen in the morning light, to the accompaniment of black spots dancing before his eyes, the prospect of his triumph had lost much of its glamour. Still, he could not let it go with a mere explanation by telephone. He must be on the spot. He shaved hastily, with a shaking hand and cut himself. The flow of blood would not be staunched. It invaded his shirt. He snatched the garment off, and called to his wife for a clean one. Mrs. Copley supplied it-not without reprimand. It seemed that the putting on of a clean shirt on a Friday morning upset the entire economy of the household. At ten minutes past eight, he came down to a breakfast he could not eat, his cheek ludicrously embellished with a tuft of cotton-wool and his ears ringing with migraine and conjugal rebuke.
It was impossible, now, to catch the 8.15. Sourly, he caught the 8.25.
At a quarter to nine, the 8.25 was hung up for twenty minutes outside King’s Cross on account of an accident to a goods train.
At 9.30, Mr. Copley crawled drearily into Pym’s, wishing he had never been born.
As he entered the office from the lift, the reception-clerk greeted him with a message that Mr. Armstrong would like to see him at once. Mr. Copley, savagely signing his name far away below the red line which divided the punctual from the dilatory, nodded, and then wished he had not, as a pang of agony shot through his aching head. He mounted the stair and encountered Miss Parton, who said brightly:
“Oh, here you are, Mr. Copley! We thought you were lost. Mr. Armstrong would like to see you.”
“I’m just going,” said Mr. Copley, savagely. He went to his room and took off his coat, wondering whether a phenacetin would cure his headache or merely make him sick. Ginger Joe knocked at the door.
“If you please, sir, Mr. Armstrong says, could you spare him a moment.”
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Copley. He tottered out into the passage, and nearly fell into the arms of Mr. Ingleby.
“Hullo!” said the latter, “you’re wanted, Copley! We were just sending out the town-crier. You’d better nip along to Armstrong pronto. Tallboy’s out for your blood.”
“Ar’rh!” said Mr. Copley.
He shouldered Mr. Ingleby aside and went on his way, only to encounter Mr. Bredon, lurking at the door of his own room, armed with an imbecile grin and a Jew’s harp.
“See the conquering hero comes,” cried Mr. Bredon, following up this remark with a blast upon his instrument.
“Jackanapes!” said Mr. Copley. Whereupon, to his horror, Mr. Bredon executed three handsome cart-wheels before him down the passage, finishing up accurately before Mr. Armstrong’s door, and just out of Mr. Armstrong’s line of sight.
Mr. Copley knocked upon the glass panel, through which he could see Mr. Armstrong, seated at his desk, Mr. Tallboy, upright and indignant, and Mr. Hankin standing, with his usual air of mild hesitation, on the far side of the room. Mr. Armstrong looked up and beckoned Mr. Copley in.
“Ah!” said Mr. Armstrong, “here’s the man we want. Rather late this morning, aren’t you, Mr. Copley?”
Mr. Copley explained that there had been an accident on the line.
“Something must be done about these accidents on the line,” said Mr. Armstrong. “Whenever Pym’s staff travels, the trains break down. I shall have to write to the Superintendent of the line. Ha, ha!”
Mr. Copley realized that Mr. Armstrong was in one of his frivolous and tiresome moods. He said nothing.
“Now, Mr. Copley,” said Mr. Armstrong, “what’s all this about the Nutrax half-double? We’ve just had an agitated telegram from Mr. Jollop. I can’t get hold of the Morning Star man-what’s his name?”
“Weekes,” said Mr. Tallboy.
“Weekes-golly, what a name! But I understand-or Mr. Tallboy understands-from somebody or other, that you altered the Nutrax headline last night. I’ve no doubt you’ve got an excellent explanation, but I should like to know just what we’ve got to say to Mr. Jollop.”
Mr. Copley pulled himself together and embarked on an account of the previous night’s crisis. He felt that he was not doing himself justice. Out of the tail of his eye, he could see the dab of cotton-wool on his cheek waggling absurdly as he spoke. He pointed out with emphasis and acerbity the extremely unfortunate suggestion conveyed by the sketch and the original headline.
Mr. Armstrong burst into a hoot of laughter.
“My God!” he shouted. “They’ve got us there, Tallboy! Ho, ho, ho! Who wrote the headline? I must tell Mr. Pym about this. Why the devil didn’t you catch it, Tallboy?”
“It never occurred to me,” said Mr. Tallboy, unaccountably crimson in the face. Mr. Armstrong hooted again.
“I think Ingleby wrote it,” added Mr. Tallboy.
“Ingleby, of all people!” Mr. Armstrong’s mirth was not to be restrained. He pushed the buzzer on his desk. “Miss Parton, ask Mr. Ingleby to step in here.”
Mr. Ingleby arrived, cool and insolent as ever. Mr. Armstrong, half speechless with joy, thrust the original pull of the advertisement at him, with a comment so barbarically outspoken that Mr. Copley blushed.
Mr. Ingleby, unabashed, capped the comment with a remark still more immodest, and Miss Parton, lingering, notebook in hand, gave a refined snigger.
“Well, sir,” said Ingleby, “it’s not my fault. My original rough was illustrated with a very handsome sketch of a gentleman overwhelmed with business cares. If the innocents in the Studio choose to turn down my refined suggestion in favour of a (male epithet) and a (female epithet) who look as though they’d been making a night of it, I refuse to be responsible.”
“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Armstrong. “That’s Barrow all over. I don’t suppose Barrow-”
The end of the sentence was more complimentary to the Studio-chief’s virtue than to his virility. Mr. Hankin suddenly exploded into a loud snicker of laughter.
“Mr. Barrow is rather fond of cashiering any suggestion put forward by the Copy Department,” said Mr. Copley. “I hardly like to suggest that there is any inter-departmental jealousy behind it, but the fact remains-”
But Mr. Armstrong was feeling hilarious, and paid no attention. He recited a limerick, amid applause.
“Well, it’s all right, Mr. Copley,” he said, when he had partially recovered himself. “You did quite right. I’ll send an explanation to Mr. Jollop. He’ll have a fit.”
“He’ll be surprised that you passed it,” said Mr. Hankin.
“Well, he may be,” agreed Mr. Armstrong, pleasantly. “It isn’t often I overlook anything indecent. I must have been off-colour that day. So must you, Tallboy, Oh, dear! Mr. Pym will have something to say about it. I shall enjoy seeing his face. I only wish it had gone through. He’d have sacked the whole department.”