elevators was slow, for the Colonel stopped to introduce his son to every man whose desk they passed or whose eye he caught.
"My boy, Vickers, Mr. Slason—Mr. Slason is our credit man, Vick—you'll know him better soon. … Mr. Jameson, just a moment, please; I want you to meet this young man!"
"If he's got any of your blood in him, Colonel, he's all right," a beefy, red-faced man jerked out, chewing at an unlighted cigar and looking Vickers hard in the face.
Even the porters had to be introduced. It was a democratic advance! But finally they reached the "upstairs" quarters, where in one corner was the Colonel's private den, partitioned off from the other offices by ground glass—a bare space with a little old black walnut desk, a private safe, and a set of desk telephones. Here Vickers stood looking down at the turmoil of traffic in the street below, while his father glanced over a mass of telegrams and memoranda piled on his desk.
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