“He's a typewriter and stenographer, and he dug up some extra jobs to do at night. He's been working and saving two years to do this. We didn't come over on one of the big liners with the Four Hundred, you can bet. Took a cheap one, inside cabin, second class.”
“By George!” said Mount Dunstan. “That was American.”
The American eagle slightly flapped his wings. The young man pushed his cap a trifle sideways this time, and flushed a little.
“Well, when an American wants anything he generally reaches out for it.”
“Wasn't it rather—rash, considering the fifteen per?” Mount Dunstan suggested. He was really beginning to enjoy himself.
“What's the use of making a dollar and sitting on it. I've not got fifteen per—steady—and here I am.”
Mount Dunstan knew his man, and looked at him with inquiring interest. He was quite sure he would go on. This was a thing he had seen before—an utter freedom from the insular grudging reserve, a sort of occult perception of the presence of friendly sympathy, and an ingenuous readiness to meet it half way. The youngster, having missed his fellow-traveler, and probably feeling the lack of companionship in his country rides, was in the mood for self-revelation.
“I'm selling for a big concern,” he said, “and I've got a first-class article to carry. Up to date, you know, and all that. It's the top notch of typewriting machines, the Delkoff. Ever seen it? Here's my card,” taking a card from an inside pocket and handing it to him. It was inscribed:
J. BURRIDGE & SON, DELKOFF TYPEWRITER CO. BROADWAY, NEW YORK. G. SELDEN.
“That's my name,” he said, pointing to the inscription in the corner. “I'm G. Selden, the junior assistant of Mr. Jones.”