"And who," he demanded thunderously, "micht you be?"
"'Lo, Mr. MacDonald," said Hank amiably. "My name's Hank Cleaver."
"And who," roared the old man, "micht 'Hank Cleaver' be to coom abargin' into my office wi'oot inveetation? Speak oop, mon! Time is money!"
"'Pears to me," pointed out Hank reasonably, "as how if time's money, like you say, you'd stop wastin' time askin' foolish questions. It don't matter much who I am. The p'int is: whut did I come for. Ain't it?"
Old MacDonald's fiery face turned two shades redder.
"Why, ye impairtenant yoong scoundrel—" he roared; then he paused. He said thoughtfully, "Ye're richt. So what did ye coom for?"
"A job," said Hank.
"A jawb! Ye mean t' tell me ye fairced y'r way into my office to osk f'r a jawb? The employment office lies doon the hall, yoong mon, twa doors t' y'r richt—"
Hank fidgeted uncomfortably.
"Well, that ain't eggsackly the kind o' job I had in mind, Mr. MacDonald. Whut I mean is—"