He sifted his papers a moment, and then turned again to the sheet of paper on which stood those twenty lines of typescript with the Post Office heading at the top. “This note from you to us is what comes first, naturally,” he continued.

“I say, J. …”—the Postmaster-General gave a little nervous laugh— “you ought not to have written it on the official paper, you know. You should have left me to do that.”

“Eh, man, but ye do beat about the bush!”—there was a faint hint of irritation in McAuley’s even voice —”what would ye have me write it on? ‘Twas no good making another draft for a simple thing like that, and it saved time to put it on your paper, from the office there. I took some with me last time I saw ye.”

“Oh, did you?” said the statesman. “All right.”

Then he put his spectacles on again with deliberation and slowly read the matter before him. He looked up.

“Oh, I say, this isn’t quite what I meant. This to be from me—of course?”

“Aye, of course,” said McAuley, “what else should it be? And if ye’ll just sign ‘twill all be right and ready and we can all go ahead.”

“Well, no doubt sooner or later there will have to be some memorandum of this kind … but after all, it was for me to write it, wasn’t it?”

McAuley was so provoked that he went too far; clicked his tongue impatiently.

“Ye’re difficult, man!” he said, “very difficult!” He half frowned as he said it. “Come now,” more cheerfully, “I canna get to work till ye’ve signed; we settled that yesterday, didn’t we?”

“All right,” said Halterton, “all right. … But I want to put it this way. I think we ought to exchange memoranda, eh? Simultaneously, eh? Don’t you?”

“What d’ye mean—exactly?” said McAuley doubtfully.

“Why,” answered Halterton, “when I give you this acceptance of the proposal … if I sign … why that’s giving you the contract, isn’t it? … Virtually? You’ve put it clear enough.”

“Of course it’s enough for us to start work on the strength of it. That’s why I brought it.”

“Yes, but … But there’s the other side to it, you know.”

“Oh,” said J. genially, leaning back for the first time in the conversation, “ye mean that ye’d have me to put down in writing here and now what I’ve been saying to you lately about y’r own position in the Company—if so happen ye should resign and go into the City, for instance?”

“Well … yes … Something of that kind, you know … something of that kind.”

“Hey! ’Tis not the time for that yet! Ye’re still in office, ye know. See now that it’s all right, before you sign, I’ve to-day’s date on it.”

“Yes, I know, I know. Quite. But still, I should feel … what shall I say …? I should feel a little more … regular.” He stood up with this and watched the talker.

“Oh, regular!” admitted the persuasive J., still seated, and he gave a very slight half-smile. He sat silent for a moment, still keeping that half-smile and rapidly considering the full consequences. It would tie him. It would leave a record to have the Postmaster-General’s share in the arrangement written and undersigned by J. himself. It would give Halterton a hold on him. But then, Halterton seemed to insist, and it was necessary to have Halterton’s signature now, at once.

“Very well,” he said at last. “It might have been better to leave that part of it as a gentleman’s agreement, and verbal, but perhaps you’re right.”

He drew out from among the papers a blank sheet, headed it with no date or address of any kind, and with the fine, hard nib of his neat fountain pen—symbolic of the man—he wrote rapidly for several minutes, covering the large sheet of paper with his stiff handwriting. Then he pushed the note over to the Minister. Halterton took it up and read it slowly, half aloud:

“MY DEAR HALTERTON …”

“I put it like that, Wilfrid,” interrupted J., “it’s not likely that they’ll give ye more than a Baronetcy, and of course I couldn’t call ye Wilfrid. And whether you choose to be Sir Wilfrid or whether you don’t, ’t’ll work either way.”

“All right,” sighed Halterton, and he began reading again:

“My dear Halterton …”

“I am going to approach you with a proposition which I do sincerely hope you will smile on. I know what a modest view you take of your own talents, especially in the business line; but you are the only man in England who does; and what is more, your administration while you were at the Post Office not only gave you just the kind of experience we want, but earned you the respect and admiration of everybody. So what I want to ask you is simply this: ‘Would you, now that you are out of public life, and I suppose enjoying plenty of leisure, consent to take up the Managership of our Corporation?’ Since my appointment as Chief Permanent Commissioner was settled there has been a great deal of discussion on the board as to who should be called in; but I don’t like these long discussions, and I don’t like a vacant place. Still less do I like having to do two jobs at once. I need hardly tell you that when your name was mentioned we were unanimous about it.