The desiccated bachelor was grateful to Denry. He
called Denry "Sir," or rather he called Denry's suit of clothes "Sir,"
for he had a vast respect for a well-cut suit. On the other hand, he
maltreated the little office-boy, for he had always been accustomed to
maltreating little office-boys, not seriously, but just enough to give
them an interest in life. Penkethman enjoyed desks, ledgers, pens, ink,
rulers, and blotting-paper. He could run from bottom to top of a column
of figures more quickly than the fire-engine could run up Oldcastle
Street; and his totals were never wrong. His gesture with a piece of
blotting-paper as he blotted off a total was magnificent. He liked long
hours; he was thoroughly used to overtime, and his boredom in his
lodgings was such that he would often arrive at the office before the
appointed hour. He asked thirty shillings a week, and Denry in a mood of
generosity gave him thirty-one. He gave Denry his whole life, and put a
meticulous order into the establishment. Denry secretly thought him a
miracle, but up at the club at Porthill he was content to call him "the
human machine." "I wind him up every Saturday night with a sovereign,
half a sovereign, and a shilling," said Denry, "and he goes for a week.
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