It was a cheerless welcome to the place that was to be his new home for the time, and a feeling of resentment began to grow up within him as he stepped on to the wharf, meeting the manager’s eyes boldly, and gradually feeling more and more determined to maintain his position and not allow himself to be, as he termed it, “sat upon” by this bullying sort of individual.
A fierce stare was exchanged for some moments before the manager spoke again, more gruffly than ever, just as Wing handed him the packet of letters he had brought.
“Better come in here,” he said.—“You, Wing, tell the skipper to make all fast. I won’t have any unloading till the morning.”
He led the way to what seemed to be the office of the great warehouse, for there were desks, stools, and writing implements, while maps hung from the wall, and bills of lading in files decorated the place in a way which made it look more grim and showed up its bareness.
As soon as they were inside, the manager perched himself on a high stool, took a big ebony ruler off the desk, and began rolling it to and fro upon his knees, before opening the principal letter of the batch, one which Stan could see plainly had been written by his uncle.
This missive the manager read through twice before laying it flat upon the table and giving it a bang with his open hand.
“Bah!” he growled. “Stan Lynn—Stan Lynn. What a name for a boy! Why did your people christen you that?”
“They didn’t,” said Stan coolly, though he could feel a peculiar twitching going on along his nerves.
“What!” cried the manager fiercely—quite in the tone he would have used to a contradictory coolie. “Why, look here,” he continued, bringing his hand down on the packet of letters with another heavy bang which made the ink start out of the well. “Why, I have it here, in your father’s handwriting. Um—um—um! Where is it? Oh, here: ‘my son Stan’.”