“You’ll have my list in fifteen minutes,” George told Dawson. “Willie will bring it over. Good-bye,” and without another look at either of the two men he left the room.
“George is—ah—” began Dawson, with a conciliatory smile.
“He always was,” interrupted William Mellen, not unpleasantly; “from his boyhood up.”
“The public will have more bargains in bonds,” said Dawson.
“Yes.” The richest man in the world smiled and went on musingly: “The public is very wise. It is selling out its stocks because they are too high, and buying bonds because they pay in gold. Now, my plan—”
Williams entered. The president frowned, and stabbed the assistant cashier through the heart with a stiletto made of a vocal icicle: “I am engaged, sir.”
“It’s—it’s Mr. Grinnell, sir. He insisted upon seeing you. And, I think, sir, you told me that if he—”
“Why didn’t you show him in at once?” The vocal stiletto was of steel, and white hot. The timorous assistant cashier left as though a stupendous draught of air had sucked him out of the room through the door. The president arose and greeted Grinnell.
“Walk in, Mr. Grinnell,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson. How do you do, Mr. Mellen?” said Grinnell cheerfully. Mr. Mellen waved his hand in amicable salutation. It was the first time that ever Mr. Dawson had seen Mellen indulge in such jovial friendliness.