When they are all ready for their quiet talks the public man decides that it is time he got up; he leaps out of bed and rushes out of the room and shaves and baths and does his exercises very very quickly.  Then he rushes back and has a talk with the HOME SECRETARY on the telephone while he is drying his ears.  When his ears are nice and dry he rings off and ties his tie, meanwhile dictating a nasty letter to The Times about the Scavengers (Minimum Wage) (Scotland) No. 2 Bill.  In the middle of this letter two new crises arise—­(1) The HOME SECRETARY’S Private Secretary’s Secretary rings up and says that the Fish-Friers’ deputation is postponed till 11 A.M. because of a Cabinet Meeting about the new war. (2) The Assistant-Secretary to the PRIME MINISTER’S Principal Secretary’s Secretary rings up and says that the PRIME MINISTER can see the public man for ten seconds at one minute past eleven.  It is now clear that the Bottle-Washers and the Fish-Friers and the PRIME MINISTER are going to clash pretty badly, and a scene of intense confusion takes place.  The public man runs about the room in his shirt-sleeves smelling distractedly at the papers on the floor and on the bed and everywhere else.  Some of the papers he throws at the Private Secretary and tells him to write a memorandum about them, and go and see the War Office about them and have six copies made of them.  Most of them, however, he just throws on the floor or hides away in a dressing-gown where the Private Secretary won’t find them; this is the only way of making sure of a permanent supply of good crises.  A crisis about a lost document is far and away the most fruitful kind of crisis.

Meanwhile the valet pursues the public man about the room with spats and tries to attach them to his person.  If he can attach both spats before the Fish-Friers’ man really gets hold of him he has won the game.  The Fish-Friers’ man keeps clearing his throat and beginning, “The position is this—­“; and the Private Secretary keeps saying in a cold dispassionate voice, “Are you going to the Lord Mayor’s lunch?” or “How much will you give to the Dyspeptic Postmen’s Association?” or “What about this letter from Bunt?”

The public man takes no notice of any one of them, but says rapidly over and over again, “Where are my spectacles?” or “What have you done with the brown socks?” He is playing for time.  If he can put them off for a little more, some new crisis may occur and he will be able to say that he is too busy to deal with them now.

The Private Secretary knows this and continues to say, “Are you going to the Lord Mayor’s lunch?” The Fish-Friers’ man doesn’t know it, and crawls about excitedly on the floor looking for the spectacles under the bed.  When he is well under the bed the public man tells the Private Secretary to ring up the Bottle-Washers and the Fish-Friers and the PRIME MINISTER and arrange things somehow, and rushes out of the room.  He is hotly pursued