“I hope not,” answered Mr. Pitkin, in a tone which seemed to imply that he rather expected to be.
Phil began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed evident that whatever he did would be closely scrutinized, and that in an unfavorable spirit.
Mr. Pitkin paused before a desk at which was standing a stout man with grayish hair.
“Mr. Sanderson,” he said, “this is the new errand boy. His name is—what is it, boy?”
“Philip Brent.”
“You will give him something to do. Has the mail come in?”
“No; we haven't sent to the post-office yet.”
“You may send this boy at once.”
Mr. Sanderson took from the desk a key and handed it to Philip.
“That is the key to our box,” he said. “Notice the number—534. Open it and bring the mail. Don't loiter on the way.”