“No, sir,” said the boy, smartly.
“Of course not,” said the visitor. “Much too short.”
“Please, sir, I can’t help that,” said the boy, whose face was now scarlet; “and I shall grow.”
“Only wiser, boy,” said the visitor, “not taller. Wiser; and then you won’t go and be shot at for a few pennies a day. Mr Ross in?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’ll see,” said the boy.
“Yes, you do know,” snarled the visitor; “and he is in, or else you wouldn’t have gone about on tiptoe. Take in my card.”
“Mr Swift, Cripple and Swift,” read the boy.
“Yes, and be quick. Time’s money, boy.”
“Yes, sir. Take a chair, sir,” said the lad, whose martial ardour had cooled into business; and he opened the baize door, let it close behind him, and knocked at the panel of an inner door, the knock sounding muffled and distant to the visitor.
“Come in!”