Bruce reluctantly took the hand he offered, wondering why it was that Sprudell repelled him so.
“Good-bye,” he answered indifferently, as he turned to go.
Abe Cone in his comparatively short career had done many impulsive and ill-considered things but he never committed a worse faux pas than when he dashed unannounced into Sprudell’s office, at this moment, dragging an out-of-town customer by the arm.
“Excuse me for intrudin’,” he apologized breathlessly, “but my friend here, Mr. Herman Florsheim—shake hands with Mr. Sprudell, Herman—wants to catch a train and he’s interested in what I been tellin’ him of that placer ground you stumbled on this fall. He’s got friends in that country and wanted to know just where it is. I remember you said something about Ore City bein’ the nearest post-office, but what railroad is it on? If we need any outside money, why, Herman here—”
Bruce’s hand was on the door-knob, but he lingered, ignoring the most urgent invitation to go that he ever had seen in any face.
“I’m busy, Abe,” Sprudell said so sharply that his old friend stared. “You are intruding. You should have sent your name.”
Bruce closed the door which he had partially opened and came back.
“Don’t mind me,” he said slowly, looking at Sprudell. “I’d like to hear about that placer—the one you stumbled on last fall.”
“We’ll come another time,” Abe said, crestfallen.