Young Mr. Peck had risen and was standing at attention. "When do I report for duty, sir?" he queried of Mr. Skinner.
"Whenever you're ready," Skinner retorted with a wintry smile. Mr. Peck glanced at a cheap wrist watch. "It's twelve o'clock now," he soliloquized aloud. "I'll pop out, wrap myself around some rations and report on the job at one P.M. I might just as well knock out half a day's pay." He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted:
"Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Finds prices shot to glory and business done for fun."
Unable to maintain his composure in the face of such levity during office hours, Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub-Antarctic dignity. As the door closed behind him, Mr. Peck's eyebrows went up in a manner indicative of apprehension.
"I'm off to a bad start, Mr. Ricks," he opined.
"You only asked for a start," Cappy piped back at him. "I didn't guarantee you a good start, and I wouldn't because I can't. I can only drive Skinner and Matt Peasley so far--and no farther. There's always a point at which I quit--er--ah--William."
"More familiarly known as Bill Peck, sir."
"Very well, Bill." Cappy slid out to the edge of his chair and peered at Bill Peck balefully over the top of his spectacles. "I'll have my eye on you, young feller," he shrilled. "I freely acknowledge our indebtedness to you, but the day you get the notion in your head that this office is an old soldiers' home--" He paused thoughtfully. "I wonder what Skinner will pay you?" he mused. "Oh, well," he continued, whatever it is, take it and say nothing and when the moment is propitious--and provided you've earned it--I'll intercede with the danged old relic and get you a raise."
"Thank you very much, sir. You are most kind. Good-day, sir."
And Bill Peck picked up his hat and limped out of The Presence. Scarcely had the door closed behind him than Mr. Skinner re-entered Cappy Ricks' lair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cappy silenced him with an imperious finger.