Wilfred had not enough to do to keep him busy during office hours; and he shamefully neglected what he had to do. It had been understood when he came, that he was to perfect himself in shorthand; that he might take some of the correspondence off Dobereiner’s hands. There lay the Pitman textbook, and the note-book handy to his hand; and the sight of them turned his stomach. Wilfred spent the greater part of the days in listless dreaming: his body held in such a position that to a glance from behind he might appear to be practicing shorthand. He suspected that Mr. Gore spent hours dreaming, too. Well he was able to if he wanted. Certainly there wasn’t much business transacted in that office. Yet Mr. Gore kept regular office hours. Apparently he hadn’t anything to do, but come sit in his office. So far as Wilfred could judge he had never read a book in his life. What an existence for one with two thousand dollars a day to spend! But to scorn his employer didn’t help Wilfred any; he knew he was the idle apprentice, and he hated himself. A murmur was heard from Mr. Gore’s corner, and Dobereiner, springing up, paddled to his employer’s desk. He had very large flat feet that turned out wide, and his knees gave a little with every step. He had bulging blue eyes that held a doglike expression; and his broad, ugly, German face was always oily with devotion. An invaluable creature, Wilfred conceded, but not the man he would choose to have around him. A brief whispered colloquy took place—everything was whispered in that office; and Dobereiner came hustling over to Wilfred’s desk, breathing a little hard, as one who bears momentous tidings. “Mr. Gore has decided not to go out to lunch,” he said. “Please bring him a glass of milk and two chicken sandwiches from the directors’ restaurant.” Wilfred cast a glance on Dobereiner, and went out. In a moment or two he returned—empty handed. Dobereiner ran to meet him. “Where is Mr. Gore’s lunch?” he demanded, aghast. “I gave the order,” said Wilfred. “A waiter will bring it directly.” Dobereiner’s slightly bloodshot eyes stuck out at Wilfred—but more in dismay, than anger. “I told you to bring it!” he stammered. “Mr. Gore must not be kept waiting!” Wilfred looked at him without speaking, one side of his mouth pressed stubbornly into his cheek. All but wringing his hands, Dobereiner turned, and waddled out of the room. In due course he returned, bearing the glass and plate as if they were holy vessels. Placing them on Mr. Gore’s desk, he stood back. Mr. Gore did not ask the wherefore of this act of service, but picked up one of the sandwiches, and bit into it. Wilfred suspected that such incidents as this did not injure him with his boss; after all they were of the same class: it was other things.