"Mr. Cowdin left me in charge," he said, hoping that his voice wouldn't break. "I'll see if I can answer Mr. Langdon's questions."
The president fired a swift look at Croly; at first it was dubious; then, as it appraised Croly's set face, it grew relieved.
"Who are you?" asked the president.
"Addicks, assistant purchasing agent," said Croly.
"Oh, the new man. I've noticed you around," said the president. "Meant to introduce myself. How long have you been here?"
"Eleven years," said Croly.
"Eleven years?" The president was unbelieving. "You couldn't have been. I certainly would have noticed your face." He paused a bit awkwardly. Just then they reached the mahogany door of the board room.
Croly Addicks, outwardly a picture of determination, inwardly quaking, followed the president. Old Cephas Langdon was squatting in his chair, his face red from his efforts, his eyes, beneath their tufts of brow, irate. When he spoke, his words exploded in bunches like packs of firecrackers.
"Well, well?" he snapped. "Where's Cowdin? Why didn't Cowdin come? I sent for Cowdin, didn't I? I wanted to see the chief purchasing agent. Where's Cowdin anyhow? Who are you?"
"Cowdin's sick. I'm Addicks," said Croly.