“It’s none of his business. Naught to do with the Railroad,” the Squire answered. Then sharply, “Where’s my nephew? Is he here?”
“No, he is not at the bank to-day.”
“No? Well, he never should ha’ been! And so I told him and told you. But you would both have your own way, and you know what’s come of it. Hallo!” breaking off suddenly, and turning his head, for his hearing was still good. “What’s that? Ain’t we alone?”
“One moment,” Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put in his head.
The cashier looked at the banker, over the visitors’ heads. “Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins are here,” he said in a low tone. “They wish to see you. I said you were engaged, sir, but——” his face made the rest of the sentence clear.
Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. “They can see me in ten minutes,” he said, coldly. “Tell them so.”
But Rodd only came a little farther into the room. “I am afraid,” he said, dropping his voice, “they won’t wait, sir. They are——”
“Wait?” The word came from the Squire. He shot it out so suddenly that the cashier started. “Wait? Why, hang their infernal impudence,” wrathfully, “do they think their business must come before everybody’s? Jenkins? Is that little Jenkins—Tom Jenkins of the Hollies?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then d—n his impudence!” the old man burst forth again in a voice that must have wellnigh reached the street. “Little Tom Jenkins, whose grandfather was my foot-boy, coming and interrupting my business! God bless my soul and body, the world is turned upside-down nowadays. Fine times we live in! Little—but, hark you, sirrah, d’you go and tell him to go to the devil! And shut the door, man! Shut the door!”