On the other side of the room, by the window, a framed advertisement hangs against the wall, like a picture, setting forth the capital and reserve and the various advantages offered by an insurance company, for which the firm are the local agents.  Between the chairs are two boards fixed to the wall with some kind of hook or nail for the suspension of posters and printed bills.  These boards are covered with such posters, announcing sales by auction, farms to be let, houses to be had on lease, shares in a local bank or gasworks for sale, and so on, for all of which properties the firm are the legal representatives.  Though the room is of fair size the ceiling is low, as in often the case in old houses, and it has, in consequence, become darkened by smoke and dust, therein, after awhile, giving a gloomy, oppressive feeling to any one who has little else to gaze at.  The blind at the window rises far too high to allow of looking out, and the ground glass above it was designed to prevent the clerks from wasting their time watching the passers-by in the street.  There is, however, one place where the glass is worn and transparent, and every now and then one of the two younger clerks mounts on his stool and takes a peep through to report to his companion.

The restraint arising from the presence of a stranger soon wears off; the whisper rises to a buzz of talk; they laugh, and pelt each other with pellets of paper.  The older clerk takes not the least heed.  He writes steadily on, and never lifts his head from the paper—­long hours of labour have dimmed his sight, and he has to stoop close over the folio.  He may be preparing a brief, he may be copying a deposition, or perhaps making a copy of a deed; but whatever it is, his whole mind is absorbed and concentrated on his pen.  There must be no blot, no erasure, no interlineation.  The hand of the clock moves slowly, and the half-heard talk and jests of the junior clerks—­one of whom you suspect of making a pen-and-ink sketch of you—­mingle with the ceaseless scrape of the senior’s pen, and the low buzz of two black flies that circle for ever round and round just beneath the grimy ceiling.  Occasionally noises of the street penetrate; the rumble of loaded waggons, the tramp of nailed shoes, or the sharp quick sound of a trotting horse’s hoofs.  Then the junior jumps up and gazes through the peephole.  The directors are a very long time upstairs.  What can their business be?  Why are there directors at all in little country towns?

Presently there are heavy footsteps in the passage, the door slowly opens, and an elderly labourer, hat in hand, peers in.  No one takes the least notice of him.  He leans on his stick and blinks his eyes, looking all round the room; then taps with the stick and clears his throat—­’Be he in yet?’ he asks, with emphasis on the ‘he.’  ‘No, he be not in,’ replies a junior, mocking the old man’s accent and grammar.  The senior looks up, ‘Call at two o’clock,