“One moment, Dingle,” he said, and turned to the secretary again. A faint sneer came and went on his face.
The delay completed Steve’s discomfiture. He placed the wheel harrow on the floor, the box of bricks on the wheelbarrow, and the dying pig on the box of bricks, whence it was instantly removed and inflated by William.
“‘Referring to your letter of the eighth—’” said Mr. Bannister in his cold, level voice.
He was interrupted by the incisive cry of the dying pig.
“Ask your son to be quiet, Dingle,” he said impassively.
Steve was staggered.
“Say, this ain’t my son, squire,” he began breezily.
“Your nephew, then, or whatever relation he happens to be to you.”
He resumed his dictation. Steve wiped his forehead and looked helplessly at the White Hope, who, having discarded the dying pig, was now busy with the box of bricks.
Steve wished he had not come. He was accustomed to the primitive exhibition of emotions, having moved in circles where the wrathful expressed their wrath in a normal manner.