It was remarkable to notice the difference between the greeting accorded to Caleb Wetherbee and that given young Brandon Tarr shortly before.
“So you haven’t managed to get at Pepperpod’s till and clear out, yet, eh?” demanded Caleb jocularly.
Mr. Weeks scowled and grinned at the same time, a feat that very few men can perform; but he made no verbal reply to the question.
“Where is he?” queried the sailor, nodding toward the inner office. “In his den?”
“He’s busy—engaged,” Mr. Weeks hastened to say.
“I believe you’re lying to me, Weeks,” returned the sailor, after eying the fellow a moment. “You’d rather lie than eat. Where’s Pepperpod?”
“He—he really is engaged, sir,” declared Weeks, who stood in mortal fear of the brawny sailor. “That is, he told me to say so to anybody that called——”
“I don’t doubt it—that’s what’s taught you to lie,” cried Caleb, in disgust. “Well, I’m going to see him if he’s engaged fifty times. Cut along now and tell him I’m here.”
Mr. Weeks slowly descended from his stool, evidently unwilling to comply with the request.
“Get a move on you,” the sailor commanded. “If you don’t I’ll roast you over a slow fire. I’m just out of the hospital and I’ve got an appetite like an ostrich—or I’d never think of eating you.”