“What do you want?” he demanded sharply. “Boys are not admitted in this office.”
“I want to see Mr. Tyler,” gasped Peter.
“Well, you can’t,” the bookkeeper responded acidly. “He’s busy. If you are wanting a job I can tell you right now that there are none to be had. We have more boys already than we know what to do with. You better not wait. It won’t do any good.”
“But I must see Mr. Tyler,” persisted Peter. “My fa—— I was told to give him this card.”
“Why didn’t you say you had a card in the first place?” was the gruff question. “Give it here. You can sit down on that bench and wait.”
As the accountant held out his hand Peter delivered up the card.
“Peter Strong—hump!” read the bookkeeper. “Sent by—oh, you’re sent by Mr. Coddington, are you? Some relative of his, perhaps.”
“Mr. Coddington said I was to present the card to Mr. Tyler,” Peter answered, ignoring the implied query.
“He shall have it right away, Strong. You’ll excuse my brusqueness. I did not understand that you were sent here. We have so many young boys applying for work that we have to pack them off in short order,” explained the man glibly.
It was evident that he was not a little discomfited at the chill reception he had accorded Peter, for he anxiously continued to reiterate excuses and apologies. Fortunately in the midst of his explanations an electric bell beside his desk rang and cut him short.