Tembarom knew this was not a good beginning, but his natural mental habit of vividly seeing the other man's point of view helped him after its usual custom. His nice grin showed itself.
“I wasn't going; I was coming,” he said. “Beg pardon. The wind's blowing a hundred miles an hour.”
A good-looking young woman, who was probably Mrs. Munsberg, was packing a smaller box behind the counter. Tembarom lifted his hat, and she liked it.
“He didn't do it a bit fresh,” she said later. “Kind o' nice.” She spoke to him with professional politeness.
“Is there anything you want?” she asked.
Tembarom glanced at the boxes and packages standing about and at Munsberg, who had bent over his packing again. Here was an occasion for practical tact.
“I've blown in at the wrong time,” he said. “You're busy getting things out on time. I'll just wait.. Gee! I'm glad to be inside. I want to speak to Mr. Munsberg.”
Mr. Munsberg jerked himself upright irascibly, and broke forth in the accent of the New York German Jew.
“If you comin' in here to try to sell somedings, young man, joost you let that same vind vat blew you in blow you right out pretty quick. I'm not buyin' nodings. I'm busy.”
“I'm not selling a darned thing,” answered Tembarom, with undismayed cheer.