nine in the morning
Sometimes , while he yet held the leaves in his hands and the pen in his mouth , with the appearance of the utmost abstraction in his task , his eyes wandered in to the inner office , and dimly saw his employer sitting silent and listless at his desk . For many years he had been Boniface Newt 's clerk ; for many years he had been a still , faithful , hard-worked servant . He had two holidays , besides the Sundays -- New Year 's Day and the Fourth of July . The rest of the year he was in the office by nine in the morning , and did not leave before six at night . During the time he had been quietly writing in those great red books he had married a wife and seen the roses fade in her cheeks -- he had had children grow-up around him -- fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light -- marry , one after another , until his home had become as it was before a child was born to him , and then gradually grow bright and musical again with the eyes and voices of another generation . Glad to earn his little salary , which was only enough for decency of living , free from envy and ambition , he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer . As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness , he thought of his age , his family , and of the frightful secrets hidden in the huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe , as if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead of terrible truths -- and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred that he could not see , and turning his head that no one might observe him , he winked until he could see again .