He lolled against the cigar-case, gathering resolution for the
ordeal.
The door of an elevator down the corridor shot open, and there emerged,
in single file, a procession, headed by the little oldest director, who
had allowed him to go free overnight. They marched toward the door,
looking straight ahead. They must pass in front of him. He felt a sudden
great relief. Something in their bearing told him they were powerless to
restrict his liberty.
The oldest director deigned him no glance, but snorted accurately in his
direction, nevertheless. The quiet one grinned faintly at him, but the
two neutral directors passed him loftily, as if they were Virtue
scorning Vice in a morality play. The largest director frowned at the
stripling who was savagely chewing a fifty-cent cigar at the procession.
The moment was incontestably the stripling's. He was cool and meant to
take the fullest advantage of it. He meant to say, contemptuously, "I
can imagine nothing of less consequence!"
But the officious cigar-clerk held a lighted match to the choice cigar
and the magnificent defiance was smothered by a cough. He was obliged to
content himself with glaring at the expansive and well-rounded back of
the biggest director.
He was alone on the field, pretending enjoyment of a cigar which was now
lighted and loathsome.
Bulger entered from the street and viewed him with friendly alarm.
"Say, where you been?" demanded Bulger.
Pages:
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232