"Come," he called out.
The door opened and Dorothy West entered, looking very pretty and business-like with a note-book and pencil in her hand.
"Good morning," she said.
"Mornin', Miss West," he replied, gazing at her apparently without seeing her. He was obviously thinking of something else.
She seated herself beside his table and looked up, awaiting his signal to begin the day's work.
"There are some things in this country that get my goat," he remarked.
John Dene threw down the letter he was reading, twirled the cigar between his lips and snorted his impatience, as he jumped from his chair and proceeded to stride up and down the room.
"There are quite a lot that get mine," she remarked demurely, as she glanced up from her note-book.
"A lot that get yours," he repeated, coming to a standstill and looking down at her.
"Things that get my goat." There was the slightest possible pause between the "my" and the "goat."