Balcomb stood for a moment in the door of the anteroom, drawing the glove from his right hand.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dameron. My name is Balcomb.” He advanced and placed a visiting card on the dingy green cover of Dameron’s desk.
Dameron picked up the card and inspected it without looking at his caller. Book agents often carried plain visiting cards and left their sample cases in the hall. Ezra Dameron classified Balcomb as belonging to their species.
“I have the honor to know your daughter slightly, Mr. Dameron.”
“That is possible,” said the old man, dryly, still not looking up.
“Yes, sir; I was fortunate enough to be associated with her in one of the Dramatic Club plays.”
“Humph!” and Ezra Dameron’s eyes wandered back to his papers. He was computing the possibility of a crop shortage, and Balcomb’s visit was ill-timed.
“I have no time to-day, sir; I’m very busy. I don’t care to buy anything,” he said.
His eyes returned to the tables he had been studying. Heavy rains had injured the corn in Nebraska, and he was speculating as to the effect of this on the railways that traversed that region.
“Pardon me,” said Balcomb, whose eyes had swept the contents of the bare room comprehensively, “but I didn’t come to sell anything. I see that you are busy and I should like to make an appointment with you for some other time.”