“If that don’t beat ——, what does?” he queried.
Blair Mellon stared aghast. This was downright mutiny. He struggled for the proper words with which to rebuke this young man.
“Say, Caucus,” said James, giving Mellon the nickname he had never heard before, “where do they raise cattle?”
“Were you speaking to me, sir?” demanded Mellon.
James realized what he had said, and for a moment his face flushed.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mellon.”
“I should think you would, sir. Such language!”
It seemed that all work had ceased in the office. Not even a telephone bell rang.
“Have you any excuse for speaking in such a manner?” demanded the old man, conscious that every one had heard.
James Eaton Legg surveyed the room. Every eye was upon him. He noticed that even the stenographers had ceased chewing their gum. Then James Legg laughed, as he drew off his black sateen oversleeves and cast them aside. He slid off his stool, almost into the irate Mellon.