“All what?”

“All that business that was going on when you came in.”

“Ah, yes. What was it, by the way?”

“Spike Murphy was seeing if he could kick higher than a kid from a firm downstairs.”

“And did he?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy,” said Mr. Pynsent approvingly. “You arranged the competition, no doubt?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

“You would. You have been in my employment,” proceeded Mr. Pynsent evenly, “three months. In that time you have succeeded in thoroughly demoralising the finest office force in New York.”

“Oh, uncle!” said Sam reproachfully.

“Thoroughly,” repeated Mr. Pynsent. “The office boys call you by your Christian name.”

“They will do it,” sighed Sam. “I clump their heads, but the habit persists.”

“Last Wednesday I observed you kissing my stenographer.”

“The poor little thing had toothache.”

“Also, Mr. Ellaby informs me that your work is a disgrace to the firm.” There was a pause. “The English public school is the curse of the age,” said Mr. Pynsent dreamily.

To a stranger the remark might have sounded ir{14}relevant, but Sam understood the import. He appreciated it for what it was—a nasty crack.

{14}

“Did they teach you anything at Wrykyn, Sam, except football?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What?”

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