The young man moved toward him. “President Tetlow asked me to tell you something, Harrington.” They were alone in the room, but he spoke in a low tone.
The bookkeeper’s shoulders squared themselves a little. He had expected this. He had known it would come—with the directors’ meeting. He jabbed his pen in a cup of shot and lifted his face sullenly. “Well?” His tone, too, was low.
“They raised you five hundred at the meeting,” said John.
The bookkeeper stared at him. Then his eyes dropped. He studied his nails for a minute. “What are you talking about?” he muttered.
“Five hundred dollars—to begin Monday,” said John.
The bookkeeper looked up under his lids, without lifting his head. “What do you mean?” he said slowly.
John waited a minute. When he spoke, a little smile edged the words. “I thought you’d like to know right off—So you could write the C. B. and L. that you won’t be able to do anything for them after today.”
“Did n’t it work?” sneered the man.
“It worked too well,” said John. “They’ve lost a good twenty thousand these two weeks—trying to fix it—and the twenty thousand is ours. But we don’t do business that way—not unless we have to,” he added with slow emphasis.
The man looked up. “How are you going to keep tab on me?” he demanded.