Bill Ryan.
"Blacked his shoes," muttered Bill, turning away and suppressing a grin. "Oh, Lord! and a clean shave, too."
By this time the teller and the cashier had stopped hand-shaking, and the latter was pushing John in through the office door toward us.
"The rest of the fellows want to shake hands with you, John," said he, slapping the disconcerted father on the back.
This was John's ordeal. Two emotions were visibly struggling in him. He knew perfectly, poor fellow, his incompetence, and the consequent slight estimate in which we (being only plodding accountants, with no very exalted criterion to judge men by) held him. Nevertheless, this morning it must have been plain to him a new factor had entered into his position among us—one, moreover, which, quite irrespective of his ability or inefficiency as a commercial automaton, entitled him to a positive measure of respect from us. Diffident, however, and totally lacking in self-confidence as he was, how was he to break through the old barriers of contempt and derision which we held out against him, and demand of us, and enforce from us the payment of this new obligation?
It was a task, truly, which seemed to require more courage and power over others than the little man possessed, and very much depended on an initial success. One could see that he felt this himself; for as he walked toward us (his knees perceptibly shaking, in spite of the unusual length of his strides) he shifted his eyes from side to side; and when they did rest on one of us for a moment, there was in their weak, watery blue an appeal rather than a command.
Ted was the first to meet him. He gripped his hand hard and cordially, and looked straight into his face.
"Mighty glad to hear it, John," he said.