The superintendent arose and walked slowly over to a desk and tossed down the limp-covered encyclopedia volume he had been perusing, then he turned and studied Hammond queerly, quite as one might study an inanimate object while in the depths of a mental problem, only this man’s eyes held a ghostly, diabolical light.
“Mr. Hammond, what do you know about aphasia?” was his startling first question.
“Not a great deal,” replied Hammond seeking to retain an unsurprised outwardness. “Refers to loss of identity or something of that sort. That encyclopedia ought to—”
“That being so,” cut in the other, seeming to return to actual surroundings, “will you please be seated and tell me what’s on your mind. Smoke?”
Hammond lifted a cigarette from the other’s case. “You are Mr. A. C. Smith, the superintendent?”
“Acey Smith will do out here.”
“As you seem to already know, my name is Hammond. I came looking for a job.”
“A job?” He swept Hammond’s raiment with his scornful eyes. “What’s so suddenly gone wrong with the world of white collars and derby hats?”
“I brought this letter of introduction from Hon. J. J. Slack, M.P.”
“Well.” Acey Smith grunted amusedly, tore open the envelope and merely glanced at the contents. He turned to Hammond with a trace of a sneer playing about his mouth. “Indicates I’m not to bother trying to find out what you’re wanted for and to slap you on the pay-roll at a hundred a month and found.”