He reached out a hand to a boy who was hurrying toward the elevator. “Hold up, Sandy. What’s that?”
“A note for the president.” It was the tone of pride.
John smiled a little as he held out his hand. “I ’ll take it to him--and here--” The hoy’s face had fallen, “Take this--” He wrote hastily on a pad--“Carry that, one o’clock sharp, to the Holman House. They ’ll give you a luncheon for the president. Sprint, won’t you?”
“You bet.” The smile was stealing back to the boyish face.
John nodded. “Bring it up yourself--set it on the box by the door--not later than one, mind.”
The boy nodded and was gone, tucking the note in his pocket. It did not occur to him to question the authority of this slow-moving young man--hardly more than a boy himself.
It did not occur to any one to question it, as he made his way in a sort of slow-looking, fast fashion about the building, doing the things, little and big, that came to his hand. One did not think of the boy apart from his eyes. It was as if a spirit dwelt there, guiding the slowness and sureness, and men yielded to it, as they yield to the light when it shines on them.
If the boy had known his power or guessed it, it would have vanished, slipped from him, even while he put out his hand to it. But he had always been slow and stupid--not clever like other boys--and needing time and patience for his work. He knew that it rested his mother to have him do things for her, and that Simeon Tetlow needed him. Beyond that his mind did not travel. He could not have told how he knew men’s thoughts--read their minds, almost, when their eyes looked into his--any more than he could have told why certain colors made him happy, or why he had chosen Edith Burton out of the office force for Simeon’s private work. Things came to him slowly. He stood motionless, sometimes, waiting--almost stupidly, it seemed--before a piece of work, a decision to be made--but when he put out his hand to it, he held it with firm grasp.
Simeon did not look up when he came back. He was speaking into the telephone, a look of comparative peace on his face.
John swept aside the heap of bills and memoranda that covered the desk across the room. Then he looked about for the dust-cloth. He found it in the pocket of one of Simeon’s old coats on the wall. A piece of cheese fell to the floor as he shook it out. And Simeon, looking around as he hung up the receiver, smiled for the first time in weeks.