“And, Uncle Arthur, I met the most wonderful gentleman I ever saw; he looked just as if he had stepped out of an old frame, and yet he is down in the Street every day and—”
“What firm?”
“No firm, he is—”
“Curbstone man, then?” Here Breen lifted the cup to his lips and as quickly put it down. “Parkins!”
“Yes, sir,” came the monotone.
“Why the devil can't I get my coffee hot?”
“Is it cold, sir?”—slight modulation, but still lifeless.
“IS IT COLD? Of course it's cold! Might have been standing in a morgue. Take that down and have some fresh coffee sent up. Servants running o'er each other and yet I can't get a—Go on, Jack! I didn't mean to interrupt, but I'll clean the whole lot of 'em out of here if I don't get better service.”
“No, Uncle Arthur, he isn't a banker—isn't even a broker; he's only a paying teller in a bank,” continued Jack.
The older man turned his head and a look of surprise swept over his round, fat face.