"Well?" he demanded, scowling over his thick spectacles.
"Hello, Bennie!" said Thornton, holding out his hand.
"Hello, Buck!" returned Hooker. "Come in. I thought it was that confounded Ethiopian."
As far as Thornton could see, it was the same old room, only now crammed with books and pamphlets and crowded with tables of instruments. Hooker, clad in sneakers, white ducks, and an undershirt, was smoking a small "T. D." pipe.
"Where on earth did you come from?" he inquired good-naturedly.
"Washington," answered Thornton, and something told him that this was the real thing—the "goods"—that his journey would be repaid.
Hooker waved the "T. D." in a general sort of way toward some broken-down horsehair armchairs and an empty crate.
"Sit down, won't you?" he said, as if he had seen his guest only the day before. He looked vaguely about for something that Thornton might smoke, then seated himself on a cluttered bench holding a number of retorts, beside which flamed an oxyacetylene blowpipe. He was a wizened little chap, with scrawny neck and protruding Adam's apple. His long hair gave no evidence of the use of the comb, and his hands were the hands of Esau. He had an alertness that suggested a robin, but at the same time gave the impression that he looked through things rather than at them. On the mantel was a saucer containing the fast oxidizing cores of several apples and a half-eaten box of oatmeal biscuits.
"My Lord! This is an untidy hole! No more order than when you were an undergrad!" exclaimed Thornton, looking about him in amused horror.
"Order?" returned Bennie indignantly. "Everything's in perfect order! This chair is filled with the letters I have already answered; this chair with the letters I've not answered; and this chair with the letters I shall never answer!"