"Nobody's fault but yours, my boy," said the G.F.A. brusquely, over his shoulder. "By the way," he remarked, turning back again, "you aren't afraid of people any more, either."
John flushed with pleasure. This was really the most desirable compliment Mitchell could bestow.
"I think I am getting a little more confidence in myself," the big man confessed, glowing modestly.
This was what three months of Kenton and "old Delsarte", as the actor called the great French apostle of intelligible anatomy, had done for John.
But Kenton and "old Delsarte" were doing something else to John that was vastly more serious, but of which Robert Mitchell received no hint until nearly a year later, when the knowledge came to him suddenly with a shock that jarred and almost disconcerted him. It was somewhere about noon of a day in February, and he had just touched the button for John Hampstead, rate clerk. Instead of John, Heitmuller answered the summons, laughing softly.
Now in the rate department John had made an amazing success. In six months gray-headed clerks were seeking his opinions earnestly. At the present moment he was in charge of all rates west of Ogden, Albuquerque, and El Paso, and half the department took orders from him.
"John's away at rehearsal," explained Heitmuller, still chuckling.
"At rehearsal?"
"Yes,—he's going to play Ursus, the giant, in Quo Vadis, with Mowrey's Stock Company at the Burbank next week."
"The hell!" ejaculated the General Freight Agent, while a look of blank astonishment came upon his usually placid features. "When did that bug bite him?"