To show, however, that everybody didn’t feel the same rare spirit of punctuality as the old clerk, there was another interesting story of the red line and a chap who arrived late on his very first day. He actually began his official career under the red line. He must have been a man like the great Napoleon in some ways. A very self-willed sort of man, in fact. He only stopped in the Apollo a fortnight, and then was invited to seek another sphere of activity. He was a nephew of one of the Directors and died in the Zulu War. A pity for him he had not been of a clerk-like turn of mind. I signed the book in full: “NORMAN BRYAN CORKEY.” and then a messenger, who wore a blue tail-coat with a glittering disc of silver on his breast, showed me up to the Country Department. It was at the very top of the edifice—a long room with desks arranged in such a way that the light from the stately windows should fall upon them. About thirty-five men of all ages pursued their avocation of making policies in this great room. The Chief had an apartment leading out of this, and usually he sat in great seclusion, pondering over the affairs of the Department. He was a big and a stout man, with a florid face and a beard and mustache of brown hair. His eyes were grey and penetrating. They roamed over the Department sometimes, when he came to the door of his own room; and he saw instantly everything that was going on and noted it down, in a capacious memory, for future use. Everybody liked him, for he was a kind and a good and a patient man, and his ability must have been very great to have reached such a high position; for he was much younger than many other men who were under him. He welcomed me with friendliness and hoped I should settle down and soon take to the work. He said: “Be industrious, Mr. Corkey, and let me have the pleasure of reporting favourably when the time comes to give an account of your labours to the Secretary.” I said: “Yes, sir, I will do my best.” He looked at me and smiled. “A great promise,” he said. “To do your best, Mr. Corkey, is to be one man picked out of a thousand.” I had no idea, then, that it was such a rare thing to do your best; but he knew. And I found afterwards that it is not only rare but frightfully difficult, and no doubt that is why so few people do it. Mr. Westonshaugh, for that was the name of this good man, called a subordinate, and a fair, pale clerk in the prime of life, with a large amber mustache and a high forehead, responded to the summons. “This is Mr. Corkey,” said the Chief. “He goes into your division, Mr. Blades. I need not ask you to look after him and indicate the duties. He passed a good examination and is quite ready to set to work.”