"Parkins!"
"Yes, sir," came the monotone.
"Why the devil can't I get my coffee hot?"
"Is it cold, sir?"--slight modulation, but still lifeless.
"IS IT COLD? Of course it's cold! Might have been standing in a
morgue. Take that down and have some fresh coffee sent up.
Servants running oer each other and yet I can't get a--Go on,
Jack! I didn't mean to interrupt, but I'll clean the whole lot of
'em out of here if I don't get better service."
"No, Uncle Arthur, he isn't a banker--isn't even a broker; he's
only a paying teller in a bank," continued Jack.
The older man turned his head and a look of surprise swept over
his round, fat face.
"Teller in a BANK?" he asked in an altered tone.
"Yes, the most charming, the most courteous old gentleman I have
ever met; I haven't seen anybody like him since I left home, and,
just think, he has promised to come and see me to-night."
The drooping lips straightened and a shrewd, searching glance shot
from Arthur Breen's eyes. There was a brain behind this sleepy
face--as many of his competitors knew.
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