"Good evening," he said, nodding sort of brusquely at the boss. "I'm looking for the general manager's office."
"You've found it," said the boss, crisply.
The tan-gloved gentleman looked first at me and then at Mr. Norcross.
"You are the chief clerk, perhaps?" he suggested, pitching the query in the general direction of the big desk.
"Hardly," was the curt rejoinder. "My name is Norcross. What can I do for you?"
If I didn't hate slang so bad, I should say that the portly man looked as if he were going to throw a fit.
"Not—not Graham Norcross?" he stammered.
"Well, yes; I am 'Graham'—to my friends. Anything else?"
The portly gentleman subsided into a chair.
"There is some misunderstanding about this," he said, his voice thickening a little—with anger, I thought. "My name is Dismuke, and I am the general manager of this railroad."