A slender, dark-complexioned man, about thirty-five years of age, sat on a stool at a high desk. He was evidently the bookkeeper.
“Any letters, Mr. Gibbon?” asked Mr. Jennings.
“Yes, sir; here are four.”
“Where are they from?”
“From New York, Chicago, Pittsburg and New Haven.”
“What do they relate to?”
“Orders. I have handed them to Mr. Potter.”
Potter, as Carl afterwards learned, was superintendent of the manufactory, and had full charge of practical details.
“Is there anything requiring my personal attention?”
“No, sir; I don’t think so.”