Eventually Baker retreated in disorder from the presence of this head clerk, having learned that the latter did not give a —— if Caspar Cadogan were sailing through Hades on an ice yacht.
Baker stormed other and more formidable officials. In fact, he struck as high as he dared. They one and all flung him short, hard words, even as men pelt an annoying cur with pebbles. He emerged from the brilliant light, from the groups of men with anxious, puzzled faces, and as he walked back to the hotel he did not know if his name were Baker or Cholmondeley.
However, as he walked up the stairs to the Senator's rooms he contrived to concentrate his intellect upon a manner of speaking.
The war-horse was still pacing his parlour and smoking. He paused at Baker's entrance. "Well?"
"Mr. Cadogan," said the private secretary coolly, "they told me at the Department that they did not give a cuss whether your son was alive or dead."
The Senator looked at Baker and smiled gently. "What's that, my boy?" he asked in a soft and considerate voice.
"They said——" gulped Baker, with a certain tenacity. "They said that they didn't give a cuss whether your son was alive or dead."
There was a silence for the space of three seconds. Baker stood like an image; he had no machinery for balancing the issues of this kind of a situation, and he seemed to feel that if he stood as still as a stone frog he would escape the ravages of a terrible Senatorial wrath which was about to break forth in a hurricane speech which would snap off trees and sweep away barns.
"Well," drawled the Senator lazily, "who did you see, Baker?"
The private secretary resumed a certain usual manner of breathing. He told the names of the men whom he had seen.