The door opened and Rickard came in. Almost simultaneously the outer door opened to admit Hardin. Who would introduce the new general manager to the dismissed one? The thought flashed from MacLean to Silent, to the telegraph operator. Bodefeldt doubled over the checker-board, pretending not to see them. Confusion, embarrassment was on every face. Nobody spoke. Hardin was coming closer.
“Hello, Hardin.”
“Hello, Rickard.”
It appeared friendly enough to the surprised office. Both men were glad that it was over.
“Nice offices,” remarked Hardin, his legs outspread, his hands in his pockets.
“Ogilvie is satisfied with them.” The men rather overdid the laugh.
“Finding the dust pretty tough?” inquired Hardin.
“I spent a month in San Francisco last summer!” was the rejoinder. “This is a haven, though, from the street. Thought I’d loaf for to-day.” Was Hardin game to do the right thing, introduce him as the new chief to his subordinates? Nothing, it developed, was further from his intention. Hardin, his legs outstretched, kept before his face the bland impenetrable smile of the oriental. It was clearly not Rickard’s move. The checker players fidgeted. Rickard’s silence was interrogative. Hardin still smiled.
The outer door opened.
The newcomer, evidently a favorite, walked into a noisy welcome, the “boys’” embarrassment overdoing it. He was of middle height, slender; a Mexican with Castilian ancestry written in his high-bred features, his grace and his straight dark hair.