"My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I—"
"Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed.
Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, spoke again.
"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me—"
"M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is trying to give attention to two interests.
"—why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me that common courtesy—"
The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across the desk, its work done.
"Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit down."
There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles.
Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him.