“Whew!” whistled Stout under his breath, and he turned to Driscoll, the friend with whom he had come in. “Say, Sammy,” he whispered, “what position does this chap hold in the place?”
“He’s the manager’s son,” was the reply.
Having accomplished his purpose Rex went on, took up his tray and carried it into the pantry. His eyes still flashed from anger.
“Jess,” he said, going up to his sister, “you must not go into that dining room again.”
“But I’ll have to,” she replied, “I’ve got lots of orders to fill.”
“Never mind. I’ll attend to yours and mine, too. I’m not going to have that ruffian ogling you, I know who he is.”
“You do? Who is he?”
“Never mind. It is enough that I know everything bad about him and nothing good. Give me your orders.”
And Jess complied. Of course this compelled Rex to wait on Stout. But he gritted his teeth and went through with the process in dignified silence, taking no notice of the attempt Stout made to draw him into conversation.
When dinner was over and Rex was back in his place behind the desk, making up accounts, Stout strolled in, a cigarette between his lips.