“Who is it, Miss Masters?” inquired the boy.
“Well, Dickey, I don’t think it’s any of your business,” retorted Miss Masters good-naturedly. “But, for fear you’ll burst with curiosity, I’ll say that it’s Mr. Martin Druce.”
“Happy as a crab this morning, ain’t you?” jeered the boy. “Well, you want to look out for that geezer, Druce. He’s a devil with the girls.”
Miss Masters made a face at him and the boy, whistling derisively, disappeared through the door, not failing to slam it loudly after him.
Miss Masters resumed her letter sorting. The door opened slowly. A man entered with his hat over his eyes. His hands were deep in his pockets and he chewed a despondent looking cigar. Had the reader been present he would have recognized him instantly, despite his unaccustomed air of lugubriousness, as our old friend, Mr. Michael Grogan.
“Good morning, Mr. Grogan,” said Miss Masters cordially.
Grogan made no reply. The girl went on with her work. Then as if communing with herself she said: “And yet they say the Irish are always polite.”
“Eh?” said Grogan, rousing himself, “what’s that?”
Miss Masters vouchsafed no reply. She merely laughed. Grogan, conscious that he was being chaffed, stared at her. He was pleased with what he saw. He found Miss Masters handsome. Her office dress, slit at the bottom and displaying at this moment a neat ankle, was ruched about the neck and sleeves. It was a rather elaborate dress for a stenographer, but John Boland was a vain man and liked to have the employes he kept close about him maintain the appearance of prosperity. In fact, he paid these particular employes well with the explicit understanding that they would keep their appearance up to his standard.
“You’re making light of me gray hairs, I see,” said Mr. Grogan, smiling.