They entered the office. It was of fair size, and contained a high desk, an office table covered with papers, and several chairs. There was but one person in the office, a young man with black whiskers and mustache and an unamiable expression. He sat on a high stool, but he was only reading the morning paper. He turned lazily as he heard the door open, and let his glance rest on Mr. Conrad.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, in a careless tone.
“Is Mr. Fairchild in?” asked the artist.
“No.”
“When will he be in?”
“Can’t say, I am sure. If you have any business, I will attend to it.”
“I have no special business, except to introduce my young friend here.”
“Indeed!” said the clerk, impudently. “Who is he?”
“He is going to work here,” returned Mr. Conrad, sharply.
“What?” queried the bookkeeper, evidently taken by surprise. “Who says he is going to work here?”