The secretary hastened to the window. A grizzled old man in butternut-colored, tightly buttoned overcoat, and carrying a telescope bag, was ascending the steps.
“I don’t know why you think so,” said the secretary resentfully to the boy. “Barnabas Brumble isn’t the only farmer in the world. Sometimes,” he added, pursuing a train of thought beyond the boy’s knowledge, “it seems as if no one but farmers came into this capitol nowadays.” 249
A few moments later one of the guards ushered into the executive office the old man carrying the telescope. The secretary caught the infection of the boy’s belief.
“What can I do for you?” he asked courteously.
“I want to see the guvner,” replied the old man in a curt tone.
“Your name?” asked the secretary.
“Barnabas Brumble,” was the terse response.
He had not read the newspapers for a week past, and so he could hardly know the importance attached to his name in the ears of those assembled. The click of the typewriters ceased, the executive clerk looked quickly up from his papers, the messenger assumed a triumphant pose, and the janitor peered curiously in from an outer room.
“Come this way, Mr. Brumble,” said the secretary deferentially, as he passed to the end of the room and knocked at a closed door.
David Dunne knew, when he heard the knock, to whom he would open the door, and he was glad the strain of suspense was ended. But 250 when he looked into the familiar face a host of old memories crowded in upon his recollection, and obliterated the significance of the call.