"Me? Oh, I don't care for anything, thanks." As the young man started
away, glass in hand, I called him back. "Is there anyone here who can
tell me where I'd be likely to find a party named Tom Murphy?"
"You mean Mr. Murphy, our store manager? You'll find him at the
prescription counter in the back. The crippled gentleman with the dark
moustache."
I followed his finger and immediately recognized my former assistant.
This _was_ a stroke of luck. It had been a long-shot, my asking for
him. I had had no idea he worked there.
"Here's the money for the soda," I told my diminutive companion. "I've
got to see someone." I slid a quarter along the counter and made my way
to the back of the store. I heard the child's words of thanks, muffled
by his noisy sipping at a soda straw.
Tom Murphy did not look up as I approached. He was busy checking over
some figures on a sheet of wrapping paper. The only radical change in
his appearance was the moustache which, obviously, he had cultivated
to lend him a professional air. He looked much older, naturally. When
he had worked for me he had been only seventeen. That would make him
thirty-five.
"Hello, Tom," I said quietly.
Slowly Murphy lifted his eyes from the paper to a level with mine. He
frowned a little and I could tell that he did not know who I was. "You
are acquainted with me?"