He sat down and lit a cigarette. The others showed little surprise or interest, with the exception of George du Cane.
It seemed to George that this was a new kind of proposition coming in these dull times.
Abrahams, who was over forty with an expanding waist-line, and Carolus, who was a creature dead when divorced from cities and the atmosphere of Art, laughed.
Hank cocked his eye at them. Then he rose to his feet. “I was joking,” said Hank, “believe I could make you ginks swallow anything. Well, I’m off, see you to-morrow.”
“Well, I’m going to the office,” said Hank.
“I’ll go with you,” said George. “I’ve got an idea.”
“I’ll tell you when we get to your office,” replied George.
Fisher and Company’s offices were situated as near heaven as the ordinary American can hope to reach. An express elevator shot them out on a concrete-floored landing where the faint clacking of typewriters sounded from behind doors marked with the names of business firms. The Bolsover Trust Syndicate; Moss Muriatti and Moscovitch; Fisher and Co.
The Fisher offices consisted of two rooms, the outer room for a typewriter and an inner room for the company.
The company’s room contained four chairs and a desk-table, a roll-topped desk and a cuspidor. The bare walls were hung with maps of towns and places. There was a map of San Francisco and its environments reaching from Valego to Santa Clara. There were maps of Redwood and San Jose, Belmont and San Mateo, Oakland and San Rafael and others.
George looked at the maps, whilst Hank sat down and looked at the morning’s correspondence spread on the table by the office boy.
These maps and town plans, marked here and there with red ink, spoke of big dealings and a prosperous business; the trail of Fisher and Company was over them all. They interested George vastly. It was the first time he had been in the office.
“I say, old man,” said George, suddenly breaking silence and detaching himself from the maps. “I didn’t know you had a company attached to you. Where’s the company?”
“Well, I expect it’s in Europe by this,” said Hank, laying down the last of his letters. “Or sunning itself on Palm Beach, or listening to the band somewhere. It bolted with the cash box three weeks ago, leaving me a thousand dollars to carry on with.”