“Who is it?” inquired the shoemaker.
“Vaniman of the bank.”
“Leave your job, whatever it is, on the threshold, sir.”
“I am not bringing you any work, Mr. Britt.”
“Then kindly pass on; I'm in executive session, sir.”
The grumble of the cogs and the squeak of the press went on.
So did Vaniman, after he had waited at the door for a few moments.
Squire Hexter had a corner of his table cleaned of paper litter, in readiness for the euchre game.
He was tilted back in his chair, smoking his blackened T. D. pipe, and a swinging boot was scraping to and fro along the spine of a fuzzy old dog whose head was meditatively lowered while he enjoyed the scratching. The Squire called the old dog “Eli”; that name gave Hexter a frequent opportunity to turn his little joke about having owned another dog that he called “Uli” and presented to a brother lawyer as an appropriate gift.
The Squire had little dabs of whiskers on his cheeks like fluffs of cotton batting, and his wide mouth linked those dabs when he smiled.