My face and hand were like the face and hand of a negro, my collar and shirt were spotted and smeared all over with ink, and even my light hair was decorated with black patches.
And in this guise I was to make my first appearance before my masters! Jack Smith's expression of amazement and horror as he caught sight of me only intensified my own distress, and Doubleday's stern "Now you're in for it!" sounded hopelessly prophetic.
I could do nothing.

To wipe my face with my clean hand, with the tail of my jacket, with my shirt-sleeve, could do no good.

No; I was in for it and must meet my doom! But I determined to make one expiring effort to escape it.
"Please, sir," I cried, as we came to the door and before we entered, "I'm very sorry, but my face is all over ink.

May I wash it before I come in ?" I was vaguely conscious of the titters of the clerks behind me, of the angry grip of Doubleday on one side of me, and of Smith's solemn and horrified face on the other, and the next moment I was standing with my friend in front of Mr Barnacle's awful desk.
He regarded me sternly for a moment or two, during which I suffered indescribable anguish of mind.
"What is the meaning of this ?" said he.

"I don't understand it." "Oh, please, sir," cried I, almost beseechingly, "I'm so sorry.