“Are there to be any officers or other stockholders present?” he asked, showing just a bit of solicitude, in spite of himself.
“I think not,” returned the young man. “Nothing has been said about it. The proxies and instructions have been sent in, as usual, by registered mail.” He indicated documents stacked on the desk. “I was just about to begin on the matter.”
“I suppose our proxies run to the clerk of the corporation, as usual, with full power of substitution, clerk to follow instructions,” said Mr. Fogg, a bit pompously, using his complete knowledge of corporation routine.
“Yes, sir. We handle most of the corporation meetings that way when it's all cut and dried. In this case, it's simply a re-election of the old officers.”
“Exactly!”
Mr. Fogg pulled his chair closer, dabbed his purple handkerchief on each side of his nose, and inquired, kindly and confidentially: “My son, what's your name?”
“David Boyne.”
“Law student here—secretary, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Exactly—and a long, hard pull ahead of you. It's too bad you're not in New York, where a young man doesn't have to travel the whole way around, but can cut a corner or two. I could give you a lot of examples of bright young chaps who have grabbed in when the grabbing was good.