He crooked his finger and motioned, and the deed was done. A moment later the ground-glass door opened, and a chunky, red-haired boy, with a belligerent eye, stood expectantly before him. The newcomer placed himself so that the big iron office safe furnished a background for him, and as he stood there with his feet wide apart, his hands in his pockets, he seemed as solidly planted as it. A shaft of noonday sunlight, coming through a side window, struck his hair and made a rubescent halo around his freckled face. The manager of the White Star looked him up and down, and the boy eyed him back look for look. At length Mr. Biron cleared his throat.
"What is your name, my lad?" he asked.
"James Joseph McCarthy," answered the boy, in the same quick, phonographic monotone that he had used on his first day at school, when the teacher had asked him the same question.
"Ah, yes—do you know my son, Andrew Francis Biron?"
"Sure. Most everybody knows Andray Franswa."
"And what do you think of—er—André François?"
The boy looked at him searchingly. "You oughter know—he's your kid," he said tersely.
"I know what I think," said Mr. Biron, "but I want to know what you think. That's what I brought you in for. I want to get some data on the subject."
The boy ran his hand through his hair, and his brow puckered, as he struggled to find a phrase by which to sum up his impression of André François. Then he said:
"Ah, gee——" he made an abortive effort, out of regard for parental feelings, to mitigate the vast contempt in his voice, "he's just a darn sissy."