“Thank you very much,” said Jimmy, and sat down on a little bench to wait.
In about ten minutes Mr. Leffingwell Hope appeared. He was a man about thirty, two or three inches shorter than Jimmy, and very much more slender of build. He was immaculately dressed; his hair was straight, slightly long, and neatly brushed; his face was thin, pale, and sharp-featured, with gray eyes, and a long, thin nose with a bump on its bridge, giving him a hawk-like expression. Jimmy disliked Mr. Leffingwell Hope the minute he saw him—there was about him something sinister, like a snake.
“Are you James Rand?” the secretary began.
If Jimmy Rand had disliked Mr. Hope from his appearance, he positively hated him when he heard his voice. It was one of those soft, curiously intoned, effeminate voices; Jimmy had never heard one before.
“Damned sissy,” he thought. “Yes,” he answered. He smiled—as friendly a smile as he could muster.
The secretary did not smile. He came through the little wooden gate and stood facing Jimmy, who had risen to meet him. Jimmy had decided to tell his idea to Mr. Hope; now that he saw him, he decided he wouldn’t. A sudden despairing courage made him decide at the same instant to see the president himself. It must be possible to work it some way.
“I want to see Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Robert G. Wentworth,” said Jimmy firmly.
“What do you want to see him about?”
Jimmy hesitated. “That’s what I’m going to tell him when I see him,” he said finally.
“Mr. Wentworth never sees anybody except by appointment.”