“Hi, I say, Pryor—one minute!” sounded a voice in the outer office, and Frank wondered what was about to happen as he recognized the tones as belonging to Dorsett.
“In a few minutes,” responded Pryor, with an impatient wave of his hand.
“All right. It’s about the salvage business, you know,” went on Dorsett from behind the wire grating. “Want to pay you the money and close up the deal.”
“Oh, that?” spoke Pryor, with a sudden glance at Frank and a grim twinkle in his eyes. “You young schemer!” he said to Frank in an undertone, with a slight chuckle. “I understand your peculiar tactics, now. You’ll do, decidedly, young man!”
Frank tried to look all due humility, but he could not entirely suppress a satisfied smile. As he passed out Pryor said to Dorsett: “You are too late on that matter. I have just closed the salvage business with Buckner of Greenville.”
“You’ve what?” howled Dorsett, with a violent start. “Why, I’m here first. No one passed me on the road. I—er, hum”—Dorsett turned white as his eye fell on Frank. He glared and shook his driving whip.
The animated and interested friend of Pryor stuck his head past the open doorway.
“I say, youngster,” he asked guardedly, his face all a-grin, “how did you circumvent the old chap?”
“Well, I nearly swam part of the way,” explained Frank. “Thank you, Mr. Pryor,” he added, as the latter opened the wire gate for him to pass out.
The old clerk had sprung to his feet, gaping in consternation at him. Pryor’s friend was convulsed with internal mirth. Pryor himself did not look altogether displeased at the situation.