“If it’s a question of wages,” he said, “I’ll take a little less.”
He saw how greatly this disconcerted her.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” demanded an impatient voice behind him. He turned, and saw a stout, middle-aged man of domineering aspect standing there and frowning heavily.
“The young man’s come to apply for the chauffeur’s position, sir,” Mrs. Jones explained. “But I’m afraid—”
“Well, what’s the matter with him?” cried the domineering man. “Can he drive a car? Has he got references, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Ross replied.
“Let’s see your references!”
“I left them at the agency,” said Ross, as if inspired.
“Agency sent you, eh? Well, they know their business, don’t they? Can you take a car to pieces and put it together again? Have you brains enough to keep your gasoline tank filled, and to remember that when you’re going round a corner some other fellow may be doing the same thing?”