Scowling with disgust, he stripped off his coat. And having no further excuse to remain in the room, I reluctantly reached for the doorknob.
But the other stopped me.
“Just a minute,” he said, running water into the lavatory basin.
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’——”
“Shut up! You’ve said that seventeen times in the last minute.”
“Ya’, suh——”
I dodged the bar of soap that he fired at me and grinned.
Drying his hands, he dropped into a seat at the writing desk and worded a short note, enclosing it in an addressed envelope.
“Know where that man lives?” he inquired, handing me the envelope.
“Ya’, suh,” I nodded, after a glance at the name. “Mistah Ricks am the funny gen’man who makes machinery things.”