Dicky was now twenty-four. His eyes were strong and so were his enthusiasms. These strengths stood him in good stead against the vast masses of evil typing and the revelations of human frailty contained in a myriad manuscript attempts. There was a mere screen between his desk and the desk of John Higgins. One winter afternoon, Dicky was interrupted by talk between the chief and the office boy:
“That colored guy in the reception room won’t go ’way,” the boy said.
“What guy is that?” Higgins asked.
“The one I told you about two hours ago when you came back from lunch.”
“What does he want?”
“He’s got a story. He says he’ll wait for you.”
“What’s his name?”
“It ain’t a natcherl name. He says the name doesn’t matter—that you don’t know him, anyway.”
“Tell him to leave his manuscript.”
“He won’t. Every little while he pulls up his sock.”