"Almost a description of me, ain't it?" says I. "Well, tow him in, Vincent, until I see if his map's any more familiar than his name."
It wa'n't. He's a middle-aged gent, kind of tall and stoop-shouldered, with curly hair that's started to frost up above the ears. The raincoat he's wearin' is a little seedy, specially about the collar and cuffs; but he's sportin' a silver-mounted walkin'-stick, and has a new pair of yellow gloves stickin' from his breast pocket.
With a free and easy stride he follows Vincent's directions, sails over to my corner of the private office, pulls up a chair, and camps down by the desk without any urgin'. Also he favors me with a friendly smile that he produces from one corner of his mouth. Sort of a catchy smile it is too, and before we've swapped a word I finds myself smilin' back.
"Well!" says I. "You 're introducin' what?"
"Just William H. Dorsett," says he.
"You do it well," says I.
He allows the off corner of his mouth to loosen up again, and for a second his deep-set brown eyes steady down as he gives me the once-over. Kind of an amused, quizzin' look it is, but more or less foxy. He crosses his legs and hitches up his chair confidential.
"I imagine you're rather used to handling big propositions here," says he, takin' in the office mahogany, the expensive floor rugs, and everything else in a quick glance: "so I hope you won't mind if I present a small one."
"In funding?" says I.
"It might very well come under that head," says he. "Ever do much with municipal franchises,—trolleys, lighting, that sort of thing?"