"You may go."
As Jim rose to leave he found a court flunkey at either elbow. They escorted him out with a military precision and flourish. He congratulated himself on the easy way he had got through with it. He must have somehow managed it pretty well.
Two days later, in the evening, an attendant from the Intelligence Office ushered himself into Deming's room without announcement. He bore a summons for the next day.
"Well, of all the damned fools!" Jim exclaimed to himself. "They don't seem to know I'm a free American citizen. I'll tell them this time. They are getting too familiar—walking into a chap's room without waiting to be invited."
This time he was brought before a higher official with a more exalted mien, and manners of inextinguishable anger. He held the tell-tale notice of February twenty-second in his horny paw. Deming was this time not asked to sit down.
"Who's this George?" was demanded.
"Why, that's our great George," confirmed Jim, sharing with jaunty confidence this bit of universal knowledge.
"George—George—the king of England," was the gratifying conclusion.
"And what does this mean?"
"That's Senate and the Roman People. That's just a joke."