"No? I'm surprised. Well, if eight sharp is too early, you may set your time."
Mitchell tried his best to appear disconcerted. "You know I'm busy every evening with my trade," said he.
"Nonsense. I've seen you out with a different dressmaker every night that I've been down-town."
"Those are not dressmakers, they are stenographers from the railroad offices. I'm sorry you're not satisfied with me, but I'm glad you called me in, for I've been meaning to speak to you about this very thing. You see, I have practically all the railroad business in the city, and it takes too much of my time keeping it lined up. I have no leisure of my own. I'll quit Saturday night, if convenient."
Mr. Comer grunted like a man who has stepped off a flight of stairs one step too soon. "I didn't know it was really business. Of course, if it is, why, you needn't quit—exactly—"
"I'm afraid I'll have to." Mitchell dropped his eyes demurely. "I've had a number of offers, and in justice to myself—"
"Offers? You? How much?"
"One hundred a month and expenses."
Mr. Comer removed his glasses, he polished them carefully, then he readjusted them and leaned forward, looking the young man over from head to foot, as if he had never until this moment seen more than his vague outlines.
"Um-m! You're nineteen years old, I believe!"