"You see, sir, it was this way. I've just run up from the Intelligence where I heard a fellow gassing about"—I varied the story from that which I had heard at Miss Bryne's—"about being kicked out of here."
"Was he a gabby sort of a guy?" my big colleague inquired.
"That would describe him exactly; and so I thought if I could reach here in time, before you'd had a chance to get any one else—"
"Chance to get any one else?" the little man snarled. "I can go out into the street and shovel 'em in by the cartload. Dirt, I call 'em!"
"Yes, sir; but you haven't done it. That's all I mean. I thought if I got here first—"
It was easy to size him up as a vain little terrier, and my respectful manner softened him. He stood back for a minute to examine me.
"You don't look like a fellow that 'd be after this sort of a job. Does he, Bridget?"
Bridget's answer, though non-committal, was in my favor:
"Sure I've seen ivery kind o' man lookin' for a job at one time or another. It's not his looks that 'll tell in handling rugs; it's his boiceps."
He tapped his own strong biceps to emphasize his observation, while I endeavored to explain.