covered by street mud that had been brought in on dirty boots, and three
energetic young men of the hooligan type, in neck-wraps and caps, were
packing wooden cases with papered-up bottles, amidst much straw and
confusion. The counter was littered with these same swathed bottles, of
a pattern then novel but now amazingly familiar in the world, the blue
paper with the coruscating figure of a genially nude giant, and the
printed directions of how under practically all circumstances to take
Tono-Bungay. Beyond the counter on one side opened a staircase down
which I seem to remember a girl descending with a further consignment
of bottles, and the rest of the background was a high partition, also
chocolate, with "Temporary Laboratory" inscribed upon it in white
letters, and over a door that pierced it, "Office." Here I rapped,
inaudible amid much hammering, and then entered unanswered to find
my uncle, dressed as I have described, one hand gripping a sheath of
letters, and the other scratching his head as he dictated to one of
three toiling typewriter girls. Behind him was a further partition and
a door inscribed "ABSOLUTELY PRIVATE--NO ADMISSION," thereon. This
partition was of wood painted the universal chocolate, up to about eight
feet from the ground, and then of glass. Through the glass I saw dimly
a crowded suggestion of crucibles and glass retorts, and--by
Jove!--yes!--the dear old Wimblehurst air-pump still! It gave me quite
a little thrill--that air-pump! And beside it was the electrical
machine--but something--some serious trouble--had happened to that. All
these were evidently placed on a shelf just at the level to show.

"Come right into the sanctum," said my uncle, after he had finished
something about "esteemed consideration," and whisked me through the
door into a room that quite amazingly failed to verify the promise of
that apparatus. It was papered with dingy wall-paper that had peeled in
places; it contained a fireplace, an easy-chair with a cushion, a table