“Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an’ that’s sufficient for Duncan Macgregor.”
“Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,” remarked Rolfe, drily.
“An’ Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger rise than the fifty pounds a year. D’ye ken that?” replied the man from Glasgow.
“Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham’s offer to you?”
“Of course, mon. Ye don’t think that I come to London a cringin’ for more pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha’ got it from another company years ago,” replied the independent old fellow. “No, I must see Mr Statham. Go back an’ tell him so. I’m here to see him on a very important matter,” and, dropping his voice, he added, “a matter which closely concerns himself.”
“Then tell me its nature.”
“It’s private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I can’t.”
“But he wants to know the nature of the business,” answered the secretary, again struck by the old fellow’s pertinacity. It was not every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary. Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even if a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the City once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no outsider.
“I can’t tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that’s only his business and mine,” replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling at Rolfe’s vain attempts to get rid of him.
“Will you write it? Here—write on this slip of paper,” the secretary suggested.