On entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. The latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. The reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen.
The employer took no notice, and Mr Twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. He made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:—
“Mr Dobbs, may I have the pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you outside?”
“C–certainly, sir,” replied Dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat.
“Will you be so good as to tell me, Mr Dobbs,” said Twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, “where my son Samuel Twitter spent last night?”
Twitter looked steadily in the clerk’s eyes as he put this question. He was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded.
“Eh! your—your—son S–Samuel,” stammered Dobbs, looking at Twitter’s breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face.
He had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. Mr Twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality.
“My poor boy,” he said, “don’t attempt to deceive me. You are guilty, and you know it. Stay, don’t speak yet. I have no wish to injure you. On the contrary, I pray God to bless and save you; but what I want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. If you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, I assure you.”
“Does—does—he know anything about this?” asked Dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man.