“Some one to see you—that man over there,” advised Jolly.
“Is that so? Stranger to me. Want to see me?” he went on, approaching the stranger.
“If you are Pepperill Smith.”
“That’s my name,” vouchsafed Pep.
“The same young man who was the guest of Mr. Tyson at Brenton?”
“Guest!” retorted Pep, in high scorn. “Oh, yes, I was a guest! Fired me the first time he got mad.”
“Oh, well, we all have spells of temper we are sorry for afterwards,” declared the man smoothly.
“Is Mr. Tyson sorry?” challenged Pep.
“He is, for a fact. You see—well, he gave you some papers, cheap stocks or bonds; didn’t he, instead of cash for your services? He thought maybe you’d rather have the money. I’ve got a one hundred dollar bill for you. If those papers are lying around loose you might hand them over to me.”
“I haven’t got them,” said Pep, and the man looked disappointed. “Maybe my friend preserved them. Oh, Mr. Jolly,” and Pep called the pianist over to them and explained the situation.