“Mr. Wickes,” he said in solemn gravity, “please have your stenographer take this letter.”
Mr. Wickes, aghast, strove to hush his vibrant tones, indicating in excited pantomime the presence of the chief in the inner office. He might as effectively have striven to stay the East wind at that time sweeping up the valley.
“Are you ready, my dear?” said Tony, smiling pleasantly at the girl. “All right, proceed. 'Dear Mr. Maitland:' Got that? 'Conscious of my unfitness for the position of foreman in—'”
“Hush, hush, Tony,” implored Mr. Wickes.
Tony waved him aside.
“What have you got, eh?”
At that point the door opened and Grant Maitland stepped into the office. Tony rose to his feet and, bowing with elaborate grace and dignity, he addressed his chief.
“Good morning, sir. I am glad to see you, in fact, I wanted to see you but wishing to save your time I was in the very act of dictating a communication to you.”
“Indeed, Tony?” said Mr. Maitland gravely.
“Yes, sir, I was on the point of dictating my resignation of my position of foreman.”