Counterparts -- by James Joyce

The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:
"Send Farrington here!"
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk:
"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs."

The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath and pushed back his chair
to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a
hanging face, dark wine_coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache:
his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty.
He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the
office with a heavy step.

He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where
a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here he
halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice
cried:

"Come in!"

The man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a little
man wearing gold_rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head up
over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it
seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not lose
a moment:

"Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain
of you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract
between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock."

"But Mr. Shelley said, sir____"

"Mr. Shelley said, sir.... Kindly attend to what I say and not to
what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for
shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before
this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie.... Do you hear me
now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as well be
talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you
get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many
courses do you want, I'd like to know.... Do you mind me now?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared
fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie &
Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for
a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of
thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a
good night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he
could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on
the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile
of papers.