With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that

young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire,

and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable

room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; an presenting

stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the

leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at,

the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the

torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of

them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather

and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it.

The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam's card in his hand, had a

youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever

was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half

fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged

that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died

of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but

unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little

eyelids that it wouldn't stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling

out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very

much. 'Oh, I say. Look here! My father's not in the way, and won't be in the

way to-day,' said Barnacle Junior. 'Is this anything that I can do?'

(Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all

round himself, but not able to find it.) 'You are very good,' said Arthur Clennam.

'I wish however to see Mr

Barnacle.' 'But I say. Look here! You haven't got any appointment, you know,' said

Barnacle Junior. (By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.) 'No,' said Arthur Clennam. 'That is what I wish to have.' 'But I say. Look here! Is this public business?' asked Barnacle junior. (Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search

after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.)

'Is it,' said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor's brown face,

'anything about--Tonnage--or that sort of thing?'

(Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck

his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering

dreadfully.) 'No,' said Arthur, 'it is nothing about tonnage.' 'Then look here. Is it private business?' 'I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.'




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