I fear that the Crown did not get out of John Eames an adequate return for his salary on that day.  So adequate, however, had been the return given by him for some time past, that promotion was supposed throughout the Income-tax Office to be coming in his way, much to the jealousy of Cradell, Fisher, and others, his immediate compeers and cronies.  And the place assigned to him by rumour was one which was generally regarded as a perfect Elysium upon earth in the Civil Service world.  He was, so rumour said, to become private secretary to the First Commissioner.  He would be removed by such a change as this from the large uncarpeted room in which he at present sat; occupying the same desk with another man to whom he had felt himself to be ignominiously bound, as dogs must feel when they are coupled.  This room had been the bear-garden of the office.  Twelve or fourteen men sat in it.  Large pewter pots were brought into it daily at one o’clock, giving it an air that was not aristocratic.  The senior of the room, one Mr Love, who was presumed to have it under his immediate dominion, was a clerk of the ancient stamp, dull, heavy, unambitious, living out on the farther side of Islington, and unknown beyond the limits of his office to any of his younger brethren.  He was generally regarded as having given a bad tone to the room.  And then the clerks in this room would not unfrequently be blown up,—­with very palpable blowings up,—­by an official swell, a certain chief clerk, named Kissing, much higher in standing though younger in age than the gentleman of whom we have before spoken.  He would hurry in, out of his own neighbouring chamber, with quick step and nose in the air, shuffling in his office slippers, looking on each occasion as though there were some cause to fear that the whole Civil Service were coming to an abrupt termination, and would lay about him with hard words, which some of those in the big room did not find it very easy to bear.  His hair was always brushed straight up, his eyes were always very wide open,—­and he usually carried a big letter-book with him, keeping in it a certain place with his finger.  This book was almost too much for his strength, and he would flop it down, now on this man’s desk and now on that man’s, and in along career of such floppings had made himself to be very much hated.  On the score of some old grudge he and Mr Love did not speak to each other; and for this reason, on all occasions of fault-finding, the blown-up young man would refer Mr Kissing to his enemy.

“I know nothing about it,” Mr Love would say, not lifting his face from his desk for a moment.

“I shall certainly lay the matter before the Board,” Mr Kissing would reply, and would then shuffle out of the room with the big book.

Sometimes Mr Kissing would lay the matter before the Board, and then he, and Mr Love, and two or three delinquent clerks would be summoned thither.  It seldom led to much.  The delinquent clerks would be cautioned.  One Commissioner would say a word in private to Mr Love, and another a word in private to Mr Kissing.  Then, when left alone, the Commissioners would have their little jokes, saying that Kissing, they feared, went by favour; and that Love should still be lord of all.  But these things were done in the mild days, before Sir Raffle Buffle came to the Board.