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.

Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face
getting scarlet.

"They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg.
His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever
in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young,
myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis'
to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen
minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth
or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low,
chuckling laughs.