Clearly there was no rest to be had here.

Anton ran up against a bale, nearly fell over a ladder, and was with difficulty saved by the loud "Take care!" of two leathern-aproned sons of Anak from being crushed flat under an immense tun of oil.
In the centre of all this movement--the sun around which porters, and clerks, and wagoners revolved--stood a young official, of decided air and few words, holding a large black pencil in his hand, with which he made colossal hieroglyphics on the bales before he desired the porters to move them.

To him Anton addressed himself in a nearly inaudible voice, and was directed by a wave of the pencil to the counting-house.
Slowly he approached the door, which it cost him a mighty effort to open, and as it gently yielded, and he saw the great room before him, his alarm was such that he could scarcely enter.

His entrance, however, did not make much sensation.

Half a dozen clerks were dashing in haste over the blue folio paper before them, to save the post.