The young manager sat erect in his chair. The clock ticked off the seconds. From somewhere far away came the rumble of an airplane motor. When the boy had finished he was aware that he had told his story well.
“That—ah—” The young manager started to speak as Curlie finished, then stopped to stare at the ceiling. He punched two holes through a blotter, looked up, then punched three more.
“Undecided,” the boy thought to himself. “He’s young. That’s the trouble. An older man would know exactly what to do. I—”
“We’ll talk to that man.” Robert Crane broke in on his thoughts. He rang a bell. A girl appeared.
“Show in Mr. Simons.”
A moment later a short, stout man with bristling gray hair appeared.
“This is Curlie Carson,” said the manager, “our man.” Curlie liked the way he said “our.” “Sit down. I’ll tell you about it.”
Simons sat down. “Secret Service,” Curlie thought, and shuddered anew.
In the five minutes that followed Curlie’s admiration for Robert Crane grew by leaps and bounds. He told Curlie’s story to the Secret Service man, told it as the boy could not have told it, and all in the space of five minutes.
“What if he is a rich man’s son?” Curlie said to himself. “He’s not to blame for that. He has his work to do in the world just as the rest of us have. He’ll do it, too.”