"Ah! the manager of the syndicate," exclaimed Hemming, waggling Mr. Dodder's extended hand, and looking keenly into his wide, clean-shaven face. Dodder was a much younger man than his figure would lead one to suppose. Hemming thought his face far too heavy for his bright, good-natured brown eyes.
"I got in last night, and came 'round for orders," explained Hemming.
"That was good of you," replied the manager, looking gratified. He led the way through several large rooms, where clerks and stenographers were hard at work, to his private office. He paused at the door, and turning, said to a clerk with a glaring red necktie and beautifully parted hair: "Ask Mr. Wells to step into my room when he comes. Tell him Captain Herbert Hemming has arrived." A dozen keen, inquiring faces were lifted from desk and machine, and turned toward the new correspondent.
Within the manager's office were expensively upholstered chairs, leather-topped tables, polished bookcases, and half a dozen admirably chosen engravings, and above the grate many photographs, with signatures scrawled across them. The carpet underfoot was soft and thick.
"Try this chair, sir," invited Mr. Dodder.
Hemming sank into it, and balanced his hat and stick on his knees; Mr. Dodder snatched them from him and placed them on his table. Then he pulled off his coat and expanded his chest.
"Now I begin to feel like working," he remarked, with youthful gusto.
"What an extraordinary chap," thought Hemming.
Dodder opened a drawer in his table, and took out a box of cigars. Hemming recognized the label, and remembered that they cost, in London, three shillings apiece by the hundred.
"Have a smoke. They're not half bad," said the manager, extending the box.