Hard experience had taught Vern that discretion is sometimes half the battle.
“I want to see the superintendent,” he answered evasively.
“Creighton? Lissen, if you wanta job I’ll save you a lot of time right off the bat by tellin’ you there ain’t none.”
“You tell Mr. Creighton that Mr. Judd—Mr. Vernon Judd, of New York—wants to see him,” insisted the caller, with as much haughtiness as a man without a thin dime can muster.
Reluctantly the office boy slouched toward the door marked “Private.”
“All right,” he said, emerging a minute later. “Go on in.”
Vern had no more than entered the room before he saw that his hopes were doomed to failure. He had counted upon finding the superintendent an athletic type of man, to whom his own experience in athletics might appeal. Instead, he was greeted by a frowning, cigar-chewing individual, who plainly had never taken an active part in any game except from the side lines.
“Well,” he snapped, as he thrust some papers under the desk blotter, “what do you want? A job?” His voice rasped like a file. “Can’t you see that sign out there? Go to the other entrance between seven and eight Thursday morning. Don’t take up my time.”
“I know I am taking up valuable time, Mr. Creighton,” Vern returned quietly, “but I think I’ve had valuable experience that might fit me for——”
“Haven’t a thing for you. No use talking.” The shrill voice rose higher. “Not a thing. Nothing at all. Good morning!”