‟GOOD morning,” said Chick cheerfully, as he hung up his hat and walked to his writing-table.
His three fellow-clerks and the lady typist were already at their desks, and their eyes had scarcely left the door.
“Good morning,” they all said in gruff unison.
There had been a long and serious discussion that morning in the office. Bennett, the head clerk, was admittedly a Socialist, a Communist, and a believer in the theory of violence, yet it was Bennett who had insisted that Chick should be addressed as “my lord.”
“Personally,” he said, “I regard titles as a ridiculous survival of class privilege, but Chick Beane has always been respectful to me, and I regard him as a comrade and an ornament to the proletariat.”
“Bit formal, isn’t it?” demurred the ledger-clerk. “I mean to say, we can’
