The clicking and banging of the typewriters, and the hum of voices ceased. Everywhere heads were raised and eyes turned curiously upon the haughty stranger.
“Eh?” No letters can represent the nasal intonation of this syllabic inquiry, and no words the supreme indifference of the boy's tone.
“Is Mr. Fleming in? I wish to see him!” Cameron's voice was loud and imperious.
“Say, boys,” said a lanky youth, with a long, cadaverous countenance and sallow, unhealthy complexion, illumined, however, and redeemed to a certain extent by black eyes of extraordinary brilliance, “it is the Prince of Wales!” The drawling, awe-struck tones, in the silence that had fallen, were audible to all in the immediate neighbourhood.
The titter that swept over the listeners brought the hot blood to Cameron's face. A deliberate insult a Highlander takes with calm. He is prepared to deal with it in a manner affording him entire satisfaction. Ridicule rouses him to fury, for, while it touches his pride, it leaves him no opportunity of vengeance.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Fleming is in?” he enquired again of the boy that stood scanning him with calm indifference. The rage that possessed him so vibrated in his tone that the lanky lad drawled again in a warning voice:
“Slide, Jimmy, slide!”
Jimmy “slid,” but towards the counter.
“Want to see him?” he enquired in a tone of brisk impertinence, as if suddenly roused from a reverie.
“I have a letter for him.”