“Where is he?” There was a flash of suspicion in the tone.
“He was called out of town. An old friend wrote, asking to see him today.”
“Did n’t know Sim Tetlow had any friends—any old ones,” said the manager.
“Will you sit down, sir?” said John. He drew forward one of the capacious chairs and the man sank into it, giving a little nip to each trouser leg, just above the knee, before he settled back comfortably, a hand resting on either arm of the big chair. He glanced about the room. “Comfortable quarters,” he said.
The young man was standing opposite him.
“President Tetlow asked me to give you any details you might wish, sir, and to represent him as far as I can.”
The man in the big chair surveyed him for a moment. “And who might you be?” he asked pleasantly. There was more than a bint of irony in the light words.
“I am John Bennett,” said the young man.
“Um-m. I am glad to know. And do you hold—any particular position?”
The young man was looking at him steadily. A slow smile had crept into his eyes. “I never thought what I am,” he said.