“Don't know anything about him,” said the official in the crispest accents. He looked as if he cared less, and was about to slam down the window, when Mr. King asked, “Does anybody in this office know?”
“Can't say.” The official pulled out his watch, compared it with the big clock on the wall, then turned away.
“Do any of you know who the man was who was killed last night?” asked the old gentleman, putting his face quite close to the window, and speaking in such clear, distinct tones that every clerk looked up.
Each man searched all the other faces. No, they didn't know; except one, a little, thin, weazen-faced person over in the corner, at a high desk, copying. “I only know that his name was Jim,” he said in a voice to match his figure.
“Have the goodness to step this way, sir, and tell me what you do know,” said Mr. King in such a way that the little man, but with many glances for the pompous individual, slipped off from his high stool, to advance to the window rubbing his hands together deprecatingly. The other clerks all laid down their pens to see the interview.
“What was his name—this brakeman's?” demanded Mr. King.
“I don't know, sir,” said the little, thin clerk. “Jim—that was all I knew him by. I used to see him of a morning when I was coming to the office, and he was waiting to take his train. He was a steady fellow, Jim was,” he added, anxiously scanning the handsome face beneath the white hair.
“I don't doubt that,” said old Mr. King hastily. “I don't in the least doubt it.”
“And he wasn't given to drink, sir,” the little, thin clerk cried abruptly, “although some did say it who shouldn't; for there were many after Jim's place. He had an easy run. And——”
“Yes, yes; well, now what I want to know,” said Mr. King interrupting the stream, Polly and Jasper on either side having a hard time to control their impatience, “is where this 'Jim,' as you call him, lived, and what was his last name.”