“Now what in blazes could a’ made her act like that?” he pondered, half-aloud. “Gee, but I’d rather be horsewhipped than make that kid cry! An’ I s’pose,” he went on as he passed out of the gate, “I s’pose ’bout this time Letty Standish an’ Caine are sayin’ goodnight, all slushly like, an’ grinnin’ at each other, like a couple of measly love-birds.”
He looked back once more at the dark house; sighed noisily, and started homeward. A passing policeman recognized him; and, in deference to the Fighter’s fast-growing political power, so far unbent as to say:
“Good evenin’, Mr. Conover. Fine night, ain’t it? Are—?”
“Oh, go to hell!” snarled Caleb.
CHAPTER XIV
CALEB CONOVER TAKES AN AFTERNOON OFF
The Fighter made life a burden, next day, for the office staff of the C. G. & X. An electric aura of uneasiness pervaded the big station—the indefinable, wordless something that gives warning to the most remote denizens of every office when the “boss” is out of temper.
Yet Caleb, as it happened, was not out of temper. He was merely unhappy. The effect, to casual observers, was the same as on the not very rare days of his rages. But, instead of storming up and down his office as on the latter occasions, Caleb merely sulked in his desk chair, chewed countless cigars, and roused himself every few minutes to make toil a horror for such luckless subordinates as just then chanced to impress their existence on his mind. Hence the President’s private office was shunned like a pest-house by everyone who could avoid going thither.
The office boy, official martyr of the day, shook visibly as he sidled into the room, about three that afternoon, and laid on his chief’s desk a sealed, unstamped envelope. Conover’s scowl vanished as he noted the handwriting. The office boy breathed deeper and his knees grew firm.
“Any answer?” asked Conover; and for the first time since his arrival his voice sounded scarcely more menacing than that of a sick bear.
“No, sir!” piped the youth with a propitiatory grin. “I ast the mes’nger an’ he said—”