It is a stout, florid man, a young farmer or farmer's son, riding-whip in hand, who produces a red-bound rate-book from a pocket in his coat made on purpose to hold the unwieldy volume.

He is a rate-collector for his parish, and has called about some technicalities.
The grave senior clerk examines the book, but cannot solve the difficulties pointed out by the collector, and, placing it on one side, recommends the inquirer to call in two hours' time.

Steps again on the stairs, and another clerk comes down leisurely, and after him still another.

Their only business is to exchange a few words with their friends, for pastime, and they go up again.
As the morning draws on, the callers become more numerous, and it is easy to tell the positions they occupy by the degree of attention they receive from the clerks.

A tradesman calls three or four times, with short intervals between--he runs over from his shop; the two juniors do not trouble to so much as look over the screen, and barely take the trouble to answer the anxious inquiry if the principal is yet disengaged.