The gentlemen looked at each other again.
“Colson!” repeated Mr. Stone. “There is certainly a mistake. Briggs is in charge on the third floor front, and Dickson has the back rooms. No, Mrs. Roberts, we have no such name among our men, I am positive.”
But Mrs. Roberts gently held her ground. She was sure she was not mistaken, for she had talked with him about his work and the different men. He was in Mr. Briggs' department, she felt quite sure. He was not a foreman, she explained, but quite a young man; had been there but a few weeks, and Dr. Everett was the one who had interested himself in securing the place.
Light of some sort began to dawn on the perplexed faces of the gentlemen.
“Can she mean black Dirk, do you suppose?” questioned the elder, looking hard at his associate.
Then came the sweet voice of the visitor.
“Oh, no; he is not a colored gentleman. His name is Colson,—Mr. Derrick Colson.”
“That is the one,” said the gentleman, quickly. Should he laugh or be annoyed?
It took but a moment after that to summon “Mr. Derrick Colson.” Black he was, certainly, not only by reason of his naturally dark skin, but because of the grimy work, whatever it was, which fell to his lot. His big apron was soiled with ink and oil, and daubed with bits of dark color which seemed not to be either.
He came forward with his usual shambling gait, and an additional shade of sullenness apparent on his face, but it glowed a swarthy red when he recognized the lady.