BOSS,” said Andrew Galpin.
He had come in and perched himself upon a corner of Jeremy’s desk, swinging his long legs. A folded copy of that day’s Guardian served him for a fan, which he plied languidly, for it was the early hot spell of June, 1914. The regard with which he favored his chief was both affectionate and quizzical.
“Well?” queried Jeremy.
“D’ you know we’re pretty near two years old?”
“That’s right, Andy. We are.”
“D’ you feel it?”
“Yes, and a couple of hundred years on top of it.”
“So bad as that! We’re some old for our age, I’ll admit. But I don’t see any signs of senile decay, yet.”
“Oh, we can still stir our bones enough to get off the press on time.”
“What do you think of this feller’s paper, anyway, Boss?”