He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, the drummer was part of the good old Souvenir Company, the one place in the world on which he could absolutely depend, the one place where they always wanted him.
He had been absently staring at the sample-tables, noting new novelties. The office girl, speaking sweetly, but as to an outsider, inquired, “Who did you wish to see, Mr. Wrenn?”
“Why! Mr. Guilfogle.”
“He’s busy, but if you’ll sit down I think you can see him in a few minutes.”
Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calf in sight, at having to wait on the callers’ bench, but he shook with faint excited gurgles of mirth at the thought of the delightful surprise Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the office manager, was going to have. He kept an eye out for Charley Carpenter. If Charley didn’t come through the entry-room he’d go into the bookkeeping-room, and—“talk about your surprises—”
“Mr. Guilfogle will see you now,” said the office girl.
As he entered the manager’s office Mr. Guilfogle made much of glancing up with busy amazement.
“Well, well, Wrenn! Back so soon? Thought you were going to be gone quite a while.”
“Couldn’t keep away from the office, Mr. Guilfogle,” with an uneasy smile.
“Have a good trip?”