“Oh, some sort of eggs,” I said, “and———”
The clerk reached down below his desk and handed me a hard-boiled egg with the shell off.
“Here’s your egg,” he said. “And there’s ice water there at the end of the desk.”
He sat back in his chair and went on reading.
“You don’t understand,” said Mr. Narrowpath, who still stood at my elbow. “ All that elaborate grill room breakfast business was just a mere relic of the drinking days—sheer waste of time and loss of efficiency. Go on and eat your egg. Eaten it? Now, don’t you feel efficient? What more do you want? Comfort, you say? My dear sir! more men have been ruined by comfort—Great heavens, comfort! The most dangerous, deadly drug that ever undermined the human race. But, here, drink your water. Now you’re ready to go and do your business, if you have any.”
“But,” I protested, “it’s still only half-past seven in the morning—no offices will be open———”
“Open!” exclaimed Mr. Narrowpath. “Why! they all open at daybreak now.”
I had, it is true, a certain amount of business before me, though of no very intricate or elaborate kind—a few simple arrangements with the head of a publishing house such as it falls to my lot to make every now and then.
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