"That'll do," he said harshly. Turning away from her he caught McCormick's eye, which dropped quickly to the message he was sending. "Go take those messages off the hook and get them out, if you want a job so bad."
She obeyed. It startled her to find she was meeting McCormick's grin with a little twisted smile almost as cynical. What she wanted to do was to scream.
Late that afternoon she was leaning on the front counter, watching people go by outside the plate-glass windows and wondering what was the truth about them, when she felt McCormick's gaze upon her. He came a step closer, putting his elbow on the counter beside hers, and spoke confidentially.
"Well, I guess you got the old man buffaloed, all right."
"I wish you'd leave me alone," she said in a hard, clear voice.
"Oh, what's the use of getting sore? You're a plucky little devil. I like you." He spoke meditatively, as if considering impersonally his sensations. "Made a killing at poker last night," he went on. When she did not answer, "There's no string tied to a little loan."
But this, even with the flash of hope it offered, was too much to be borne.
"Go away!" she cried. He strolled back to the wires, whistling.
She was checking up the last undelivered message at six o'clock and telling herself that she must go back to Mrs. Campbell's for the night, when Mr. Roberts laid a telegram on the desk beside her. "I'll try to keep the office going without your assistance," he said with an attempt at sarcasm. "Don't bother about me. Just get out."
The flowing operator's script danced before her eyes. She read it twice. "See your service this afternoon. Can offer Miss Davies night duty St. Francis hotel forty-five dollars a month report immediately. Bryant, Mgr."