“Is—is anybody in?”
Considering that the space behind the mahogany and brass railings was crowded with clerks and that from the various inner offices people were constantly coming and going, the question was peculiar. The young guardian of the portal seemed to find it so. He regarded Mr. Bangs with the puzzled stare of one not certain whether he has to do with a would-be joker or an imbecile.
“Say, who do you want to see?” he demanded.
“Why, Mr. Cabot—Mr. Augustus Cabot.”
“Mr. Cabot's away, I tell you. He's out of town.”
A tall, thin man of middle age, who had just emerged from one of the private offices, paused beside them. He looked at Galusha through his eyeglasses, and then held out his hand.
“Why, Bangs!” he exclaimed. “It IS Bangs, isn't it? Glad to see you. Don't you know me? I'm Minor. How are you?”
Galusha remembered him, of course. Minor had been a young assistant bookkeeper in those far-off and dismal days when he, Galusha, had worked—or attempted to work—in that very office. That was—mercy, that was a great many years ago! Minor had changed very much.
They shook hands and Galusha was invited to come into Mr. Minor's private office.
“Let me see,” said the latter, “you are—you are—What is your business now? I did hear, but I've forgotten.”