The Firm of Girdlestone Chapter 1 - Mr. John Harston Keeps an Appointment

Ashton Hoffman (0:01)

Chapter 1 of The Firm of Girdlestone. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Read by Ashton Hoffman. The Firm of Girdlestone. By Arthur Conan Doyle.

Mr. John Harston keeps an appointment.

The approach of the offices of Girdlestone and Co was not a very dignified one, nor would the unentated who traversed it from any conception of the commercial prosperity of the firm in question. Close to the corner of a broad and busy street within a couple of hundred yards of Fenchurch Street station, a narrow doorway opens into a long whitewashed passage.

On one side of this is a brass plate with the inscription Girdlestone and Co, African merchants, and above it a curious holographic supposed to represent a human hand in the act of pointing. Following the guidance of this somewhat ghostly emblem, the wayfarer finds himself in a small square yard surrounded by doors, upon one of which the name of the firm reappears in large white letters with the word PUSH printed beneath it. If he follows this laconic invitation, he will make his way into a long low apartment, which is the counting house of the African traders. On the afternoon of which we speak, things were quiet at the office. The line of pigeonholes in the wire curtain was deserted by the public, though the linoleum covered floor for abundant traces of a bit is the morning. Misty London light shone hazily through the glazed windows, and cast dark shadows in the corners. On a high perch in the background, a wary-faced elderly man with muttering lips and tapping fingers cast up endless lines of figures.

Beneath him, in front of two long, shiny mahogany desks, half a score of young men with bent heads and stooping shoulders appeared to be ridding fiercely neck-to-neck in the race of life. An habitude of London office might have deduced from their relentless energy and incorruptible diligence that they were under the eyes of some member of the firm. The member in question was a broad-shouldered, bald-necked young man who leaned against the marble mantelpiece, turning over the pages of an almak, taking from time to time a stealthy peep over the top of it at the toilers around him. Command was imprinted in every line of his strong square-set face in a wreck-powerful frame. Above the medium size, with a vast spread of shoulders, a broad aggressive jaw and a bright bold glance, his whole pose and expression spoke of a resolution pushed to the verge of obscenity. There was something classic in the regular olive-tinted features and black crisp curling hair fitting tightly to the well-rounded head. Yet though classical, there was an absence of spirituality. It was rather the profile of one of those Roman emperors blended in its animal strength, but lacking those subtle softness of eye and mouth which speak of an inner life.

The heavy gold chain across the waistcoat and the bright stone which blazed upon the finger were the natural complement of the sensuous lip and curving chin. Such was Ezra, only child of John Girdlestone, and heir to the whole of his vast business. Little wonder that those who had an eye to the future bent over their ledgers and worked with a vigor calculated to attract the attention of the junior partner.

And to impress him with a due sense of the enthusiastic regard for the interest of the firm. It was speedily apparent, however, that the young gentleman's estimate of their services was not entirely based upon their present performance. With his eyes still fixed upon the almak and a sordonic smile upon his dark face, he uttered a single word, Parker, a flax-haired clerk perched at the further end of the high glistening desk, gave a violent stalt and looked up with a scared face.

Well, Parker, who won? asked the junior partner. Won, sir, the youth stammered. Yes, who won? repeated his employer. I wholly understand you, sir, the clerk said, growing very red and confused. Oh, yes, you do, Parker, young Girdlestone's remark, tapping his almak sharply with a paper knife. You were playing odd man with Mr. Robinson and Perkins when I came in from lunch, as I presume you were at it all the time. I was away, I have a natural curiosity to know who won. The three unhappy clerks fixed their eyes upon the ledgers to avoid the sarcastic glaze of the employer. He went on in the same quiet tones. You gentlemen draw about 30 shillings a week from this firm.

I believe I am right in my figures, Mr. Gilroy. Addressing the senior clerks sitting at the high solitary desk, a port from the others, yes, I thought so. Now Odd Man Out is no doubt a very harmless and fascinating game, but you can hardly expect to encourage it so far as to pay so much an hour for the privilege of having it played in our accounting house.