“Rotten.”

“I should think it was!” Old man Minick would agree. “I — should — think — it — was! Hm.”

George wished he wouldn’t. He couldn’t have it, that’s all. Old man Minick would stroll over to the desk marked Satterlee, or Owens, or James. These brisk young men would toss an upward glance at him and concentrate again on the sheets and files before them. Old man Minick would stand, balancing from heel to toe and blowing out his breath a little. He looked a bit yellow and granulated and wavering, there in the cruel morning light of the big plate glass windows. Or perhaps it was the contrast he presented with these slim, slick young salesmen.

“Well, h’are you to-day, Mr. —