This was the endorsement in red ink on the sheet of blue foolscap which had set out the grievances of the carmen, and Erb flushed with pride to find that he, and he alone, had been selected to argue the grievances of his colleagues with the Chief of the department. The men appeared not to grudge him the honour, and the van foreman held himself austerely in a corner, declining to open his mouth, as though fearful of disclosing an important state secret. Erb thought it diplomatic to ask the others whether they had any suggestions to offer for the coming debate (this without any intention of accepting advice); they all declared moodily that it was he who had led them into trouble, and his, therefore, should be the task of getting them out. Payne wished him good luck, but appeared to have no great confidence in his own powers of prophecy. Erb washed in a zinc pail, parted his obstinate hair carefully with the doubtful assistance given by a cheap pocket mirror which William Henry always carried, and, watched by the carmen and chaffed by the casually interested porters and clerks, he went to endure that experience of an interview with the Chief, known as “going on the carpet.” The Chief was engaged for the moment; would Carman Barnes please wait for a few moments? It happened that Erb himself was boiling for the consultation, and this enforced delay of a few moments, which grew into ten minutes, disconcerted him; when at last a shorthand clerk came out, and he was admitted into the presence, some of his warm confidence had cooled. The Chief, a big, polite, good-tempered man, sat at the table signing letters. “Shan’t keep you half a second,” he remarked, looking up. “Very good, sir.” “Beautiful weather,” said the Chief absently, as he read, “for the time of the year.” “We can’t complain, sir,” said Erb meaningly, “of the weather.” The clock up high on the wall of the office ticked on, and Erb endeavoured to marshal his arguments in his mind afresh. “That little job is finished,” said the Chief, dabbing the blotting paper on his last signature. “I wonder how many times I sign my name in the course of a day; if only I had as many sovereigns. Let me see, what was it we wanted to talk to each other about?” Erb produced the memorial, and stood cap in hand as the Chief read it with an air that suggested no previous knowledge of the communication. “Oh, yes,” said the Chief, “of course. I remember now. Something about the hours of duty.” “And wages,” said Erb, “et cetera.” “I get so much to think of,” went on the Chief, autobiographically, “that unless I put it all down on a memo I forget about it. Now when I was your age. What are you, Barnes?” “Twenty-one next birthday, sir.” “Ah,” sighed the Chief, “a fine thing to be one and twenty, you’ve got all the world before you. You ought to be as happy as a lord at your age.” “The ’appiness that a lord would extract from twenty-three and six a week would go in a waistcoat pocket.”