"Hi, Ned. Take the throne." Olmstead waved his hand at the now vacant chair behind the big desk. "Hold it down 'til I get back. Monday, maybe."
"Going fishing, huh?" Gone was all trace of stiffness, of reserve, of unfriendliness. "You big, lucky stiff!"
"Well, my brilliant young squirt, maybe you'll get old and fat enough to go fishing yourself some day. Who knows? 'Bye."
Lunch-box in hand and encumbered with tackle, Olmstead walked blithely along the corridor to the office of Assistant Works Manager Jones. While he had not known just what to expect, he was not surprised to see a lunch-box exactly like his own upon the side-table. He placed his box beside it.
"Hi, Olmstead." By no slightest flicker of expression did either Lensman step out of character. "Shoving off early?"
"Yeah. Dropped by to let the Head Office know I won't be in 'til Monday."
"O.K. So'm I, but more speed for me. Chemquassabamticook Lake."
"Do you pronounce that or sneeze it? But have fun, my boy. I'm combining business with pleasure, though—breaking in Whitworth on my job. That Fairplay thing is going to break in about an hour, and it'll scare the pants off of him. But it'll keep until Monday, anyway, and if he handles it right he's just about in."
Jones grinned. "A bit brutal, perhaps, but a sure way to find out. 'Bye."
"So long." Olmstead strolled out, nonchalantly picking up the wrong lunch box on the way, and left the building.