“No,” he answered; “it's a room.” One eye was fixed upon me, dull and glassy; it never blinked, it never wavered. With the help of the other he continued his writing.
“I mean,” I explained, coming entirely into the room, “are these the offices of Lott & Co.?”
“It's one of them,” he replied; “the back one. If you're really anxious for a job, you can shut the door.”
I complied with his suggestion, and then announced that I was Mr. Kelver—Mr. Paul Kelver.
“Minikin's my name,” he returned, “Sylvanus Minikin. You don't happen by any chance to know what you've come for, I suppose?”
Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way among the goods that covered the floor and pull his ears for him. From his grave and massive face, he might, for all I knew, be the head clerk.
“I have called to see Mr. Lott,” I replied, with dignity; “I have an appointment.” I produced the letter from my pocket, and leaning across a sewing-machine, I handed it to him for his inspection. Having read it, he suddenly took from its socket the eye with which he had been hitherto regarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon his pocket handkerchief, turned upon me his other. Having satisfied himself, he handed me back my letter.
“Want my advice?” he asked.
I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the affirmative.
“Hook it,” was his curt counsel.