The superior rooms lay up a little passage to the right of the messengers' lobby, and were three in number. First came the Board-room, a large and solemn salmon-coloured apartment, where the Commissioners sat when for despatch of business assembled. A big, dull-faced clock ticked on the mantelshelf; solemn green maps of distant countries, from year's end to year's end undisturbed, curled themselves round in dusty layers on the walls; and a large red-leather sofa, on which Mr. Beresford, in the absence of the other Commissioners, and after a hard night's waltzing, had enjoyed hours of pleasant repose, filled up a recess. In the centre of the room stood a heavy writing-table, with pads of blotting-paper, pools of black ink, and bundles of quill-pens distributed at regular intervals. At the head of this table always stood a red-leather arm-chair, and this arm-chair always on business occasions contained the sacred person of the Chief Commissioner, Sir Hickory Maddox. A little man, Sir Hickory, with a parchment face, a blue eye like a bit out of a china plate, stiff gray hair brushed into a point on the top of his head, and formal little gray whiskers: always dressed in a little black frock-coat, and little gray waistcoat and trousers; wearing too a heavy gold-set cornelian seal, and a cumbrous old-fashioned watch-key, just projecting from his fob,--buoys to show whereabouts his thick gold chronometer was sunk, in some unknown depths. A kind-hearted, fussy, hard-working man, whose family had been for generations in the public service, who had himself worked for years in the Draft and Docket Office, had risen and distinguished himself there, and had finally been rewarded with the Chief-Commissionership of the Tin-Tax, and with being created a K.C.B. His official position he esteemed one of the most enviable in the kingdom; he thought of nothing but official matters; and when, being of a hospitable turn, he had solemn dinners at his house in Wimpole Street, all the guests were magnates of other offices or--for he was a kind chief in that respect--juniors of the Tin-Tax. And invariably, just as the cloth was drawn, the butler would appear at his master's elbow, bearing a salver, on which lay an enormous red-leather official despatch-pouch. The little man would smile feebly at his guests, would shrug his shoulders, and saying, "Our labours follow us even here," would unlock the pouch, glance at its contents (probably the _Globe_, and private note), and relocking it, say, "Lay it on the library-table, Benson. I must go into the matter before I sleep. However, _nunc vino pellite curas!_ Port, sherry, madeira, and claret!"