At a small, flat desk near the gate sat, not a frecklefaced boy, but a man, powerful of build, keen-eyed and quick-muscled. He, was writing a letter on a very good quality of note-paper. He said: “Well?”—but kept on writing. He did not look up. This always discouraged strangers; by making them feel their utter insignificance. The effect on millionaire magnates, who similarly found themselves ignored, also was salutary.
“I wish to see Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” said the young man, pleasantly and unimpressed.
The gate-keeper wrote two paragraphs and then, still writing, asked, wearily:
“Got an appointment?”
“No; but—”
The over-mature office-boy, in one breath and in a voice that dripped insolence, said, still without looking up:
“What do you want to see him about? He is very busy. Cannot possibly see any one to-day. Good day!”
There was a laugh, not at all ironical, or in the nature of an exaggerated and audible sneer, but full of amusement; and then the stranger without the gate said:
“When I tell you what I am you will bring Mr. E. H. Merriwether to me.”
The voice was not menacing at all or cold, but there was an assurance about it that made the Merriwether hireling look up. He saw a young man, of about thirty, with very intelligent, gray-blue eyes, a straight, well-modeled nose, and a determined chin. His square shoulders and general air of muscular strength made him look as if he could give as good an account of himself in a rough-and-tumble fight as in a battle of wits.