"I'm sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see you
to-day. He's engaged three deep. I've told him you wished to see him,
and he says that he much appreciates the great services you've rendered
to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty
pounds a year, beginning the first of last January."
"What!" cried the old man. "What--'e offers me another fifty pounds!
'E's guid an' generous; but I have na' come here for that. I've come to
London to see him--ye hear!--to see him--d'ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an' I
must."
"But, my dear sir, you can't!"
"Tell him I don't want his fifty pound," cried the old man so derisively
that the clerks looked up from their ledgers. "I must speak to him, an'
him alone."
"Impossible," exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.
"Why impossible?" asked the old fellow. "When Mr Statham knows the
business I've come upon he won't thank ye for keepin' us apart. D'ye
ken that, mon?" and his beard wagged as he spoke.
"I know nothing, Macgregor, because you've told me nothing," was the
other's reply.
"Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an' that's sufficient for Duncan
Macgregor."
"Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find
himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,"
remarked Rolfe, drily.
"An' Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger
rise than the fifty pounds a year. D'ye ken that?" replied the man from
Glasgow.
"Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham's offer to you?"
"Of course, mon. Ye don't think that I come to London a cringin' for
more pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha' got it from another company
years ago," replied the independent old fellow. "No, I must see Mr
Statham. Go back an' tell him so. I'm here to see him on a very
important matter," and, dropping his voice, he added, "a matter which
closely concerns himself."
"Then tell me its nature."
"It's private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I
can't."
"But he wants to know the nature of the business," answered the
secretary, again struck by the old fellow's pertinacity. It was not
every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary.
Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even
if a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the City
once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no
outsider.
"I can't tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that's only his business
and mine," replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling at
Rolfe's vain attempts to get rid of him.
"Will you write it? Here--write on this slip of paper," the secretary
suggested.
The old fellow hesitated.
"Yes--if you'll let me seal it up in an envelope."
Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow
wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope,
and wrote the superscription.
A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who
was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the
snappish way habitual to him:--"Who's this from--eh? Why am I
bothered?"
"From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won't go away."
"Then discharge the brute," he replied, and with the note in his hand he
finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.
At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the
scribbled words.
His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he
glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.
For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when he
recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:--"Ben, I must see this
man alone--a--a private matter. I--I had no idea--I--"
"Of course, Sam," exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. "Let me know
when he's gone."
"Rolfe, show him in," the millionaire ordered. The instant his
secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small
mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself
up for the interview.