“Fine. I think Golden’s coming this way.”
“Really? Wonder what he wants.”
“Hard to say. He always wants something.”
“That’s his privilege,” said Kuppelton righteously.
“I suppose so,” said Jim.
The white-faced boy went on to the next desk, handing out letters and inter-office memoranda.
Richard Kuppelton put his fountain pen down carefully. There were several letters for him. He opened one of them and started to read.
He had read only a few lines when Mr Golden came into the office. Even without looking up from his letter Richard Kuppelton could have told that someone from the front office had arrived. The typewriters clattered more loudly. The usual low buzz of voices died away, and he could hear Mr Murphy’s swivel chair being pushed back from his desk as he stood up to welcome the visitor from the front office. Kuppelton put his letter under the blotter and then he looked up casually.
Benjamin Franklin Golden stood behind Mr Murphy’s railing. He stood very erect, his eyes moving from desk to desk as he studied the office. He was a short man and plump. His eyes were small and black and shiny. Mr Golden had iron-gray hair which he allowed to grow a little longer than necessary. He was proud to have kept his hair. He had a small nose and a rather foolish little mouth and he looked more like a South American or Italian or something like that, thought Kuppelton.
He pretended to write figures in his notebook, while he listened carefully to what Mr Golden was saying to Mr Murphy.