During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small table near his master, busied himself with some letters.
Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed—
“Oh! by the way, there’s a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde and Motherwell works who’s been hanging about for a couple of days to see you, Sam. Says he must see you at all coats.”
“I don’t want to see anybody from Glasgow,” snapped Statham. “Tell him I’m not here, whoever he is.”
“He’s the old engineer, Macgregor,” Rolfe said. “He mentioned to me when I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see you, and that he was coming up on purpose. I told him it was a wild-goose chase.”
“Engineer? What does he do? Mind the engine—one of the men who threaten to go on strike, I suppose,” remarked old Sam.
“No,” laughed Rolfe. “He’s a little more than engineer. It is he who has designed nearly every locomotive we’ve turned out.”
“Oh! valuable man—eh? Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him back to Glasgow to make a few more engines.”
“He’s waiting outside at the counter now, and won’t go away,” exclaimed the secretary.
“Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. I can’t be bothered to see the fellow.”