Peter was the Exeter so far as his department was concerned--and
had been for nearly thirty years--twenty as bookkeeper, five as
paying teller and five as receiving teller.

And the regularity and persistency of this clock! Not only did it
announce the hours, but it sounded the halves and quarters,
clearing its throat with a whirr like an admonitory cough before
each utterance. I had samples of its entire repertoire as I sat
there: One ...two...three...four...five--then half an hour later a
whir-r and a single note. "Half-past five," I said to myself.
"Will Peter never find that mistake?" Once during the long wait
the night watchman shifted his leg--he was on the other side of
the stove--and once Peter reached up above his head for a pile of
papers, spreading them out before him under the white glare of the
overhead light, then silence again, broken only by the slow,
dogged tock-tick, tock-tick, or the sagging of a hot coal
adjusting itself for the night.

Suddenly a cheery voice rang out and Peter's hands shot up above
his head.

"Ah, Breen & Co.! One of those plaguey sevens for a nine. Here we
are! Oh, Peter Grayson, how often have I told you to be careful!
Ah, what a sorry block of wood you carry on your shoulders. I
won't be a minute now, Major." A gratuitous compliment on the part
of my friend, I being a poor devil of a contractor without
military aspirations of any kind. "Well, well, how could I have
been so stupid. Get ready to close up, Patrick. No, thank you,
Patrick, my coat's inside; I'll fetch it."