Frank took the cards handed him and glanced at the names.
“Joseph Hartley—Cecil Clifford.
“New York City.”
“I don’t know them,” he said. “What is their business?”
“Berry important, sah, so dey say. Kain’t tell no mo’.”
“Show them in.”
“A’right, sah.”
Pomp disappeared, but he had no sooner vanished than a shock of red hair and a genial Irish mug appeared in the spot he had left.
“Shure, Misther Frank, ivery bit av the sthores is aboard the boat, sor.”
“Good for you, Barney O’Shea!” replied the young inventor. “Everything is then in readiness for the start.”