“They have?” he said, resentfully, as if Michael were to blame. “What do they want?”
“They want to speak to you a minute, sir,” the servant replied, in a defensive voice.
Briggs uttered an exclamation of impatience. “Show them in here,” he said, looking down at the pile of letters on his desk. Then he stood up and waited for his callers. They came in slowly, as if afraid of treading on one another’s heels; that is, all but one, the youngest and best dressed, a rather handsome fellow of about twenty-eight.
“Well, gentlemen?” Briggs remarked, pleasantly. The look of fatigue and resentment had disappeared from his face. His eye singled out the young fellow, as if expecting him to speak. But it was the oldest of the group, a tall, thin man, with a smooth face and heavy, white hair, who spoke first. He had a deprecating manner, a hoarse voice and a faint brogue.
“We’ve come back to have another little talk with you, Mr. Briggs,” he said.
“All right, Mr. Monahan. Sit down, gentlemen, won’t you?” They all glanced at the chairs and remained standing.
“We didn’t know just what reply to make to your remarks a few minutes ago till we put our heads together,” Monahan continued.
“Well, what decision have you come to?” Briggs asked, cheerfully.
Monahan hesitated. “Well, the fact is——”
The young fellow broke in. “We’re not satisfied,” he said, fiercely. “We think you ought to make us a more definite promise.”