A young lady, almost of a height with me, was standing by my side, while a stout, elderly lady,—the same lady I had seen on the veranda over the way,—was filling the doorway.
I was messy all over with flour dust, brown earth from the potato sacks, grease and grime. I had slipped at the water edge while assisting the loggers to load their goods, and this did not contribute to the improvement of my personal appearance. I wiped my hands on my damp overalls, and my hands came out of the contact worse than before.
"I wish to see the manager," demanded the melodious voice, its owner raising her skirts and displaying,—ah, well!—and stepping over some excelsior packing which lay in her way.
"Your wish is granted, lady," I answered.
"Are you the manager?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in unfeigned astonishment.
"I have that honour, madam," I responded with a bow, but not daring to look at her face in my then dishevelled state.
"I am Miss Grant," she said.
"Miss Grant! Pleased to meet you."
I shoved out a grimy paw, like the fool I was. When it was too late, I remembered my position and brought the paw back to my side.
The young lady had already drawn herself up with an undefinable dignity.