"Why don't you smoke?" he asked, filling his pipe. I pointed to the sign. "That is not for us," he said, shrugging his shoulders and pointing to the people who were sitting at the farther end of the room. "That's for the applicants—for the rabble, you know."
I refused to smoke. He sat at his desk, fumbled in the pigeon-holes for awhile, then sat back in his chair and puffed dreamily at his pipe for a few moments, following with his eyes the smoke-rings. Then he called out unconcernedly:
"Grun!"
Nobody answered.
"Grun!" he called again, this time louder.
"What's the matter? Grun! Grun!" and putting his pipe down on the desk he stood up and looked over to where the "rabble" sat.
"Whose name is Grun? Grun?"
A man of about forty stood up and asked: "Grun? Did you call Grun?"
Mr. Cram looked him straight in the face.
"Can't you hear?" he thundered. "Can't you hear when I call? Come here—you."