“Sutler’s clerk!” screamed Balcomb. Pollock made a feint of turning back suddenly and Balcomb darted into his private office and slammed the door.
Leighton leaned against the elevator shaft outside and laughed until the corridors rang and sedate tenants came out to see who was disturbing the peace. He laughed at Balcomb’s anxiety to keep out of Pollock’s way, and he laughed now at Pollock, who joined him, wearing a look of outraged dignity that was altogether out of proportion to his size.
“He called me a sutler’s clerk,” said the captain, twisting his mustache.
“Then he ducked. His insults don’t cut very deep.”
“I owe you an apology,” said Pollock, when they had reached the street, “for running in on you that way; but I had to tell the chap I knew about his lying letter the hour I got it.”
“It’s his busy day. I was there on a similar errand,” said Leighton. “He’s a dangerous person—not in the way of personal violence,”—and they both laughed—“but as an intriguing scoundrel.”
“Say, old man,”—they paused on the corner and Pollock cleared his throat once or twice and struck a trolley pole with his stick as he hesitated. “You don’t think she’s interested in him, do you?”
“Which she are you talking about?”
“I mean Miss Merriam. He’s been about with her a good deal. I just wondered.” And the captain seemed both perplexed and embarrassed as he continued to tap the pole.
“Miss Merriam is a very bright young woman, and bright young women are not easily deceived,” replied Morris.