Mrs. Jones led the way, and they all went out through the dining-room and into the kitchen, bent on making a home of the place for the first time since the new regime went into effect.
CHAPTER XX
The dapper Peters was left alone at his desk, but not for long. In a few minutes the street door opened and Bill Jones, with a certain air about him—one might even say with a certain flourish in his manner—sauntered in. He ambled up to the desk.
"Who might you be?" he asked, casually, his half-shut eyes making an inventory of Peters.
"I'm the manager!" Peters snapped.
"No, you ain't," said Bill, grinning.
"What's the reason I ain't?" inquired Peters.
"Because you're fired," said Bill, calmly, turning his back and putting his hands in his pockets. He gazed slowly around from floor to ceiling, and then at the walls. Peters came from behind the desk and stood close to him.
"Say, Mrs. Jones pulled something like that on me," he said, "but I ain't taking no orders from you people! I take my orders from Mr. Hammond!"