Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of
his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs--
"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of
trance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!"
Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his
shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's
method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into
Bartholomew Berg's very private office.
In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of
the door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg,
quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost
in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and
twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam
Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets,
attitude argumentative.
"This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler,
McChesney."
Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr.
Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great
pleasure."
"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so
young."
His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his
restless little eyes.
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