"Please, sir, it's about my salary." His age was twenty-two and his name was Roland Bleke. Mr. Fineberg, at his word, drew himself together much as a British square at Waterloo must have drawn itself together at the sight of a squadron of cuirassiers. "Salary?" he cried. "What about it? What's the matter with it? You get it, don't you?" "Yes, sir, but --" "Well? Don't stand there like an idiot. What is it?" "It's too much." Mr. Fineberg's brain reeled. It was improbable that the millennium could have arrived with a jerk; on the other hand, he had distinctly heard one of his clerks complain that his salary was too large. . . .