“Just how do I go about this?—I mean, what system do you—”
“Jim!” roared Mr. Bates, throwing down his pen, “show this con—show Mr. Cameron how to file these letters! Just like these blank old-country chumps!” added Mr. Bates, in a lower voice, but loud enough to be distinctly heard.
Jim came up with a smile of patronising pity on his face. It was the smile that touched to life the mass of combustible material that had been accumulating for the last hour in Cameron's soul. Instead of following the boy, he turned with a swift movement back to the manager's desk, laid his sheaf of letters down on Mr. Bates' papers, and, leaning over the desk, towards that gentleman, said:
“Did you mean that remark to apply to me?” His voice was very quiet. But Mr. Bates started back with a quick movement from the white face and burning eyes.
“Here, you get out of this!” he cried.
“Because,” continued Cameron, “if you did, I must ask you to apologise at once.”
All smiles vanished from the office staff, even Jimmy's face assumed a serious aspect. Mr. Bates pushed back his chair.
“A-po-pologise!” he sputtered. “Get out of this office, d'ye hear?”
“Be quick!” said Cameron, his hands gripping Mr. Bates' desk till it shook.
“Jimmy! Call a policeman!” cried Mr. Bates, rising from his chair.