“Sit down,” grunted Conover, scowling under the vigorous grip of the lad’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
The caller twisted his neck somewhat uneasily in its amazing height of collar, fought back a gulp and fell to drawing his tan gloves through his fingers. Caleb noted that the hands were slim, the fingers long and tapering. He also noted that the boy, despite his almost effeminate delicacy of contour and feature, was square of jaw and steady of eye. The Fighter was, from these signs of the Brotherhood of Strength, amused rather than irritated at the other’s nervousness. He even felt a vague desire to set Hawarden at his ease.
“First time you an’ me have come together, ain’t it?” he asked, less gruffly.
“Yes, sir,” answered Hawarden pleasantly. “I know you by sight,—and of course by reputation,—but it’s hardly likely you’d have noticed me. My parents have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Pleasure, hey?” queried Caleb. “That’s what they called it?”
Hawarden flushed painfully, as at some not wholly glad memory.
“Never mind thinkin’ up a comeback,” grinned Caleb. “Us two don’t speak quite the same language. My mistake. Now,” dropping into the office manner habitual to him, “What do you want? I take it you’re not makin’ a round of social calls an’ choosin’ this for the first stoppin’ place. What can I do for you? Come to the point quick, please. I’m li’ble to be pretty busy to-day.”
Hawarden smiled back in an engaging fashion that held no hint of fear. For this, Caleb again felt somewhat drawn to him.
“I’m on a horribly cheeky errand,” began the youth, “And, to tell you the truth, I’m scared stiff. I came to speak to you on a rather delicate subject.”
“I never saw the ‘delicate subject’ that wasn’t the better for being dragged out into the fresh air. Get to the point, son. I’m busy.”