I did
suggest it; but when he pointed out that it would involve an
afternoon's work at least, and went on to grumble that it would
probably cost him a month to re-sort them--that he hated all meddling
with his records--"
"My God!" I cried. "You don't tell me his records--eight years'
close work, as I know--"
"Eight years," repeated the Principal in grave echo as my words
failed. "Eight years' work: that would have cost a few hours to
secure--a week, perhaps, to rearrange; and in twenty minutes or so--"
He broke off. "You see that smoke?" he asked. "Over there by the
two tall Wellingtonias? . . . There, sir, goes up the last trace of
those eight years of our friend's devotion. Patience amounting to
genius, loyalty to truth for truth's sake so absolute that one
careless moment is dishonour, records calculated to a hair, tested,
retested, worked over, brooded over--there's what in twenty minutes
your Hun and your Goth can make of it in this world!"
"But, sir," I broke in, "books and packed paper don't burn in that
way! Foe's Regent-Park notes alone ran to thirty-two letter-cases
when I saw them last.
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