Disappointment met him at the threshold, so to speak. The young,
extremely young, gentleman at the desk by the door, informed him that
Mr. Augustus Cabot was not in. Pressed still further, he admitted that
he would not be in that day. No, he would not be in that week. No, he
was not in Boston. Where was he? Well, he had gone away and the date of
his return was extremely uncertain.
Galusha, his spirits at a low ebb, stroked his chin in sad perplexity.
"Dear me! Dear me!" he observed. And then added:
"Is--is anybody in?"
Considering that the space behind the mahogany and brass railings was
crowded with clerks and that from the various inner offices people
were constantly coming and going, the question was peculiar. The young
guardian of the portal seemed to find it so. He regarded Mr. Bangs
with the puzzled stare of one not certain whether he has to do with a
would-be joker or an imbecile.
"Say, who do you want to see?" he demanded.
"Why, Mr. Cabot--Mr. Augustus Cabot."
"Mr. Cabot's away, I tell you. He's out of town."
A tall, thin man of middle age, who had just emerged from one of the
private offices, paused beside them. He looked at Galusha through his
eyeglasses, and then held out his hand.
"Why, Bangs!" he exclaimed. "It IS Bangs, isn't it? Glad to see you.
Don't you know me? I'm Minor. How are you?"
Galusha remembered him, of course.
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