found it headed “Royal Indelible Bank, 142, Threadneedle Street, E.C.” He then noticed that all the books on his desk were stamped “Royal Indelible Bank,” and the official seal, which stood ready to his hand, bore a similar inscription.
He walked to the door and opened it. He found that it communicated with a very large room, in which forty or fifty clerks were at work.
“By Jove!” thought he, as he contrasted their apartment with his own luxurious private room, “banker's clerk be hanged! I'm a banker, or something very like it, and on a large scale too!”
At this moment the clock struck five, and all the clerks rose simultaneously, and began to wash their hands at little stands provided for the purpose. When they had completed their toilettes they went out in twos and threes, passing his door as they did so, and saying, “Good evening, sir,” very respectfully, as they went by.
“I suppose,” thought Freddy, “I ought to go too. I wonder where I live.” So he took down his hat from a peg and followed the last clerk out. He saw the porter (a stout responsible-looking person in a quiet business-like livery), at the end of a passage, holding the door open for him.
“Now,” thought Freddy, “how the deuce am I to find out where I live? I can't ask the porter, he'll think I've been drinking.” He felt in his pockets for some cards, but he could not find any. “I'll go back,” thought he, “and look in the Directory. I'm sure to be a householder.”
