Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on.
His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his
eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke.

"My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you
probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--"

"Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed.

Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A
moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil
traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot,
spoke again.

"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--"

"M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is
trying to give attention to two interests.

"--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me
that common courtesy--"

The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period,
enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across
the desk, its work done.

"Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the
affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it."
He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit