The Secretary was, of course, the pivot round which the whole office turned. The Directors themselves seldom dared to interfere with him; for he was the hero of a thousand fights, so to say, and had climbed to the giddy altitude of the secretarial chair after a lifetime spent in heroic and successful efforts to advance the prosperity of the Apollo Fire Office. His fame naturally extended far beyond the walls of the Apollo. He was known throughout the whole insurance world as a light in the darkness. He had written more than one book on the subject; and the _Insurance Guide_, the journal of the insurance craft, seldom appeared without some respectful allusion to his great fame. I believe he was a sort of king over the secretaries of other Fire Offices; at any rate, nobody ever pretended there was anybody to equal him. He was called Septimus Trott, Esquire; and there came a gloomy morning when I stood before him alone in the silence of the secretarial chamber. But, of course, the interest was profound, for my fate might be said to hang in the balance. I had seen Mr. Trott far off on several occasions, and had once, in the Board Room, where I went with a message, witnessed the solemn sight of him conversing on equal terms with six Directors simultaneously, and easily making them think as he thought, thanks to his enormous experience and easy flow of words; but this was the first time I had approached him _in propria persona_, as we say. He was of a sable silvered, with a florid complexion, and his eyes had a piercing quality. He wore gold-rimmed glasses divided horizontally, so that when he looked through the tops of them he could see men and things about him, and when he looked through the bottom he could read documents and data, or see to write himself if necessary. He now looked through the upper story of his glasses and focused me with an expression that I had never seen before on any human countenance. It was not pity, by any means, and it was not scorn. You couldn’t say that Mr. Trott was angry; but then you certainly couldn’t say that he was pleased. He regarded me thoughtfully, yet without what you might call much emotion. He was perfectly calm, yet under his easy self-control I soon found that he concealed a good deal of quiet annoyance at what he had heard about me. Having studied my features, which I had striven to make as apologetic as possible, he dropped to the lower story of his glasses, and I perceived that he had open before him some registers of my writing. They evidently dismayed him, and for some time he said not a word. At length he broke a silence which was becoming exceedingly painful. “Mr. Corkey,” he exclaimed, “I believe you are in your eighteenth year!” “Yes, sir,” I answered. “It will be my eighteenth birthday in the autumn.” “And do you desire to celebrate that event with us, or elsewhere, Mr. Corkey?” he inquired.