“Eh, that's business, though. Know anybody here?”
“Not a living soul; that's why they sent me,” said the boy, in sudden reckless desperation. He was the more furious that he knew the tears were standing in his eyes.
The idea seemed to strike the man amusingly. “Looks a little like it, don't it?” he said, smiling grimly at the paper before him. “Got any money?”
“A little.”
“How much?”
“About twenty dollars,” said Clarence hesitatingly. The man opened a drawer at his side, mechanically, for he did not raise his eyes, and took out two ten-dollar gold pieces. “I'll go twenty better,” he said, laying them down on the desk. “That'll give you a chance to look around. Come back here, if you don't see your way clear.” He dipped his pen into the ink with a significant gesture as if closing the interview.
Clarence pushed back the coin. “I'm not a beggar,” he said doggedly.
The man this time raised his head and surveyed the boy with two keen eyes. “You're not, hey? Well, do I look like one?”
“No,” stammered Clarence, as he glanced into the man's haughty eyes.
“Yet, if I were in your fix, I'd take that money and be glad to get it.”