Into the soft brown eyes of Doodles shot an angry light.
The other saw it and smiled sneeringly. He did not count on the lad's strength.
In a moment the indignation had passed. There was none of it in the quiet voice. "Good-day, sir!"
Doodles was gone.
A plan had instantly formed in his mind. He would get himself a lunch, and then wait outside the office until Mr. Randolph appeared. That was the only way. It never occurred to him to give the matter up.
One restaurant was passed; it did not look inviting. The next was better, but flies were crawling over the bottles and jars in the window. He went on.
"It will cost more, I suppose," he muttered regretfully to himself, as he entered a neat cafe where the door was opened to him by a boy in livery.
"Bread and milk," he ordered of the trim maid, and he smiled to himself contentedly at the daintiness with which it was served.
The milk was cool and sweet, and Doodles was hungry. The whistles and clocks announced that it was noon, and soon afterward people began to stream in. Women with shopping-bags and bundles, men with newspapers, hatless working-girls; but everywhere were courtesy and low voices. Doodles was glad of his choice.
He sat eating slowly, wishing he knew at what time he would be most likely to meet Mr. Randolph, when he stared at a man coming toward him—it was the president of the Paper Company! The boy drew in a delighted breath—what great good luck!