He
rose and held out a finely tapered hand.
"Now, this is fine," he exclaimed. "This is really fine, Mr. O'Mara.
Rather odd, too--coincidence and that sort of thing, I mean. Because I
was just this instant wondering whether I had better send for you or
wait until you just happened down river again."
In many ways the president of the East Coast Company reminded Steve of
Caleb Hunter, even though there could be no two things more in contrast
than the latter's calm and comfortable bigness and Elliott's thin and
wiry and extremely nervous exterior. It was a similarity due entirely
to the innate honesty of both men--such honesty as makes of every
attempt at dissimulation an assured non-success. And Miss Sarah had
never anticipated her brother's clumsiest finesse with greater ease
than did Steve sense, that afternoon, the weight of worry behind his
employer's first effort at jauntiness. He nodded, hopefully, it seemed.
"Something else gone wrong?" he asked. "Or are you going to tell me
that McLean is still having trouble with that curve of his."
Elliott, too, shook his head, but his negative nod was less brisk, less
hopeful.
"No," he replied. "No, we've got that laid, or at least practically
so. It's not anything so satisfyingly material that I wanted to talk
about. I wish it were, because--well, the fact is, now that you are
here it appears I may have considerable trouble in making you believe
that I'm not merely developing a most womanish case of nerves.
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