“At what gate?”
“On the other side.”
Gib made mental note of that statement. Then he asked:
“Who are you?”
“John Breakspeare.”
Gib had been regarding the young man in a malevolent manner. That expression seemed to freeze. Then slowly he averted his face. His gaze fixed itself on a burnt cigar hanging over the edge of the desk. He sat perfectly still, as if rigid, and Breakspeare could hear the ticking of a watch in his waistcoat pocket.
“What do you want?” he asked in a loud voice, as if they were in the mill.
Until that instant Breakspeare had no definite thought of wanting anything in this place. First had been that reaction to the throb of the engine. Then came the impulse to visit the mill. That impulse was unexamined. It had not occurred to him to think that anything might come of it; he had not thought of meeting Gib. Nevertheless the question as it was asked started a purpose in his mind.
“I want to learn the iron business,” he said.
“Here?” said Gib, quickly.