"So you're back, are you?" he remarked, with his hands in his pockets. Hemming was thinking of the big, kind-hearted manager, and replied by asking the cause of his death. "Apoplexy. Are you ready to sail for the Philippines? Why didn't you wait in Porto Rico for orders?" he snapped.
"Keep cool, my boy," said Hemming's brain to Hemming's heart. Hemming himself said, with painful politeness: "I can be ready in two days, Mr. Wells, but first we must make some new arrangements as to expenses and salary."
"Do you think you are worth more than you get?" sneered Wells. "Has that book that you wrote, when we were paying you to do work for us, given you a swelled head?"
Hemming was about to reply when an overgrown young man, a bookkeeper, who had been listening, nudged his elbow roughly.
"Here's your mail," he said.
Hemming placed the half-dozen letters in his pocket. His face was quite pale, considering the length of time he had been in the tropics. He took the overgrown youth by the front of his jacket and shook him. Then he twirled him deftly and pushed him sprawling against his enraged employer. Both went down, swearing viciously. The other inmates of the great room stared and waited. Most of them looked pleased. An office boy, who had received notice to leave that morning, sprang upon a table. "Soak it to 'em, Dook. Soak it to 'em, you bang-up Chawley. Dey can't stand dat sort o' health food."
Wells got to his feet. The bookkeeper scrambled up and rushed at Hemming. He was received in a grip that made him repent his action.
"Mr. Wells," said Hemming, "I shall hold on to this gentleman, who does not seem to know how to treat his superiors, until he cools off, and in the meantime I'll trouble you for what money is due me, up to date. Please accept my resignation at the same time."
"I'll call a copper," sputtered Wells.
The door opened, and the head of the publishing house of S——'s Sons entered.