Once upon a time a careless lad, having the charge of a bundle of letters addressed to the King,—­petitions, and such like, which in the course of business would not get beyond the hands of some Lord-in-waiting’s deputy assistant,—­sent the bag which contained them to the wrong place; to Windsor perhaps, if the Court were in London; or to St. James’s, if it were at Windsor.  He was summoned; and the great man of the occasion contented himself with holding his hands up to the heavens as he stood up from his chair, and, exclaiming twice, “Mis-sent the Monarch’s pouch!  Mis-sent the Monarch’s pouch!” That young man never knew how he escaped from the Board-room; but for a time he was deprived of all power of exertion, and could not resume his work till he had had six months’ leave of absence, and been brought round upon rum and asses’ milk.  In that instance the peculiar use of the word Monarch had a power which the official magnate had never contemplated.  The story is traditional; but I believe that the circumstance happened as lately as in the days of George the Third.

John Eames could laugh at the present chairman of the Income-tax Office with great freedom, and call him old Ruffle Scuffle and the like; but now that he was sent for, he also, in spite of his radical propensities, felt a little weak about his ankle joints.  He knew, from the first hearing of the message, that he was wanted with reference to that affair at the railway station.  Perhaps there might be a rule that any clerk should be dismissed who used his fists in any public place.  There were many rules entailing the punishment of dismissal for many offences,—­and he began to think that he did remember something of such a regulation.  However he got up, looked once round him upon his friends, and then followed Tupper into the Board-room.

“There’s Johnny been sent for by old Scuffles,” said one clerk.

“That’s about his row with Crosbie,” said another.  “The Board can’t do anything to him for that.”

“Can’t it?” said the first.  “Didn’t young Outonites have to resign because of that row at the Cider Cellars though his cousin, Sir Constant Outonites, did all that he could for him?”

“But he was regularly up the spout with accommodation bills.”

“I tell you that I wouldn’t be in Eames’s shoes for a trifle.  Crosbie is secretary at the Committee Office where Scuffles was chairman before he came here; and of course they’re as thick as thieves.  I shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t make him go down and apologise.”

“Johnny won’t do that,” said the other.

In the meantime John Eames was standing in the august presence.  Sir Raffle Buffle was throned in his great oak arm-chair at the head of a long table in a very large room; and by him, at the corner of the table, was seated one of the assistant secretaries of the office.  Another member of the Board was also at work upon the long table; but he was reading and signing papers at some distance from Sir Raffle, and paid no heed whatever to the scene.  The assistant secretary, looking on, could see that Sir Raffle was annoyed by this want of attention on the part of his colleague, but all this was lost upon Eames.