Shortly there appeared a youngish man, constructed by nature to adorn wearing apparel.
"Be you Mr. Castle?" asked Scattergood.
"I'm his secretary. What do you want?"
"Young man, I'm disapp'inted. When I see you I figgered you must be president of the railroad or the Queen of Sheeby. I want to see Mr. Castle."
"What is your business with him?"
"'Tain't fit for young ears to listen to," said Scattergood.
"If you have any business with Mr. Castle, state it to me."
"Um!... I come quite consid'able of a distance to see him—which I calc'late to do." He reached over, with astonishing suddenness in one so bulky, and twirled the secretary about with his ham of a hand. At the same time he leaned against the gate, which was not fastened to restrain such a weight. "Now, forrard march, young feller. Lead the way. I'm follerin' you." And thus Scattergood entered the presence.
He saw behind a huge, flat desk a very thin man, who leaned forward, clutching his temples as though to restrain within bounds the machinery of the brain inside. It was President Castle's habitual posture when working. The temples and dome of the head seemed to bulge, as if there was too much inside for the strength of the restraining walls. The president looked up and fastened eyes that themselves bulged from hollowed sockets. It was the face of a man who ran his mental dynamo at top speed in defiance of nature's laws against speeding.
"Well?" he snapped. "Well—well?"