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.'