it. Guess you ain't used to a gent's office, you darn sailorman--"

But the door was closed with a slam and the rest of the protest was cut
off. Bat swung about in his chair to discover a picture not easily to be
forgotten.

Standing had left his desk. He was there with his back against the
closed door, and his lean figure towered over the shorter sailorman in
dungaree, who stood gazing up at him questioningly. The sight appealed
to the grim humour of the manager. He wanted to laugh. But he refrained,
though his eyes lit responsively as he watched the smile of irony that
gleamed in the mill-owner's eyes.

"Well, well." Standing's tone lost none of the aggravation of his smile.
"Say, I'd never have recognised you, Idepski, if it hadn't been that I
was warned you'd shipped on the _Lizzie_." He laughed outright. "I can't
help it. You wouldn't blame me laughing if you could see yourself. Last
time I had the pleasure of encountering you was in Detroit. That's years
ago. How many? Nearly seven. It seems to me I remember a bright-looking
'sleuth,' neat, clean, spruce, with a crease to his pant-legs like a
razor edge, a fellow more concerned for his bath than his religion. Say,
where did you raise all that junk? From old man Hardy's slop-chest?
Hellbeam makes you work for your money when you're driven to wallowing
in a muck-hole like the _Lizzie_. It isn't worth it. You see, you've run
into the worst failure you've made in years. But I only wish you could
see the sorry sort of sailorman you look."

Standing's right hand was behind him, and Bat heard the key turn in the
lock of the door. He waited. But the trapped agent never opened his
lips.