“It makes you rough and disposed to bully, living a solitary life like this, I suppose.”
“Humph!” said the manager, frowning; “but I don’t know what you mean by solitary. I have English clerks and checking-men, and a whole gang of coolies. Do you call that solitary?”
“But they are under you. I suppose you live a good deal by yourself.”
“Humph! Yes,” said the manager.
“And that, of course, makes you rough.”
“P’raps so. But you won’t find me so rough when you get used to me. There! come along and let’s see what my cook has got for us this evening. You’ll have to take pot-luck. Wing will contrive something better. Come on.”
There was a grim, satisfied smile in the manager’s countenance as he rose, took a great stride such as his long legs enabled him to do with ease, and clapping Stan on the shoulder, swung him round and looked him straight in the face.
“Why, youngster,” he said, “your father must have been wonderfully like you in the phiz when he was your age; but in downright style of speaking and ways you put me wonderfully in mind of your uncle Jeffrey.”
“Do I?” said Stan quietly.
“You do; but he’s a regular brick of a man.”