He was an adventurer, in the old honest sense, and no clerk.  And he found himself obliged not merely to buy large books of account, but to fill them with figures; and to do addition sums from page to page; and to fill up hundreds of cards; and to write out lists of shops, and to have long interviews with printers whose proofs made him dream of lunatic asylums; and to reckon innumerable piles of small coins; and to assist his small office-boy in the great task of licking envelopes and stamps.  Moreover, he was worried by shopkeepers; every shopkeeper in the district now wanted to allow him twopence in the shilling on the purchases of club members.  And he had to collect all the subscriptions, in addition to his rents; and also to make personal preliminary inquiries as to the reputation of intending members.  If he could have risen every day at 4 A.M. and stayed up working every night till 4 A.M. he might have got through most of the labour.  He did, as a fact, come very near to this ideal.  So near that one morning his mother said to him, at her driest: 

“I suppose I may as well sell your bedstead.  Denry?”

And there was no hope of improvement; instead of decreasing, the work multiplied.

What saved him was the fortunate death of Lawyer Lawton.  The aged solicitor’s death put the town into mourning and hung the church with black.  But Denry as a citizen bravely bore the blow because he was able to secure the services of Penkethman, Lawyer Lawton’s eldest clerk, who, after keeping the Lawton books and writing the Lawton letters for thirty-five years, was dismissed by young Lawton for being over fifty and behind the times.  The desiccated bachelor was grateful to Denry.  He called Denry “Sir,” or rather he called Denry’s suit of clothes “Sir,” for he had a vast respect for a well-cut suit.  On the other hand, he maltreated the little office-boy, for he had always been accustomed to maltreating little office-boys, not seriously, but just enough to give them an interest in life.  Penkethman enjoyed desks, ledgers, pens, ink, rulers, and blotting-paper.  He could run from bottom to top of a column of figures more quickly than the fire-engine could run up Oldcastle Street; and his totals were never wrong.  His gesture with a piece of blotting-paper as he blotted off a total was magnificent.  He liked long hours; he was thoroughly used to overtime, and his boredom in his lodgings was such that he would often arrive at the office before the appointed hour.  He asked thirty shillings a week, and Denry in a mood of generosity gave him thirty-one.  He gave Denry his whole life, and put a meticulous order into the establishment.  Denry secretly thought him a miracle, but up at the club at Porthill he was content to call him “the human machine.”  “I wind him up every Saturday night with a sovereign, half a sovereign, and a shilling,” said Denry, “and he goes for a week.  Compensated balance adjusted for all temperatures.  No escapement.  Jewelled in every hole.  Ticks in any position.  Made in England.”