“Why the deuce don't they say so?” answered Mr. Bates impatiently. “Well! Well!” getting hold of himself again. “Here we allow our solicitors to look after our legal work. Typewrite?” he inquired suddenly.
“I beg your pardon!” replied Cameron. “Typewrite? Do you mean, can I use a typewriting machine?”
“Yes! Yes! For heaven's sake, yes!”
“No, I cannot!”
“Bookkeep?”
“No.”
“Good Lord! What have I got?” inquired Mr. Bates of himself, in a tone, however, perfectly audible to those in the immediate neighbourhood.
“Try him licking stamps!” suggested the lanky youth in a voice that, while it reached the ears of Jimmy and others near by, including Cameron, was inaudible to the manager. Mr. Bates caught the sound, however, and glared about him through his spectacles. Time was being wasted—the supreme offense in that office—and Mr. Bates was fast losing his self-command.
“Here!” he cried suddenly, seizing a sheaf of letters. “File these letters. You will be able to do that, I guess! File's in the vault over there!”
Cameron took the letters and stood looking helplessly from them to Mr. Bates' bald head, that gentleman's face being already in close proximity to the papers on his desk.