Droom's overcoat was on and buttoned up to his chin; his long feet were encased in rubbers of enormous size and uncertain age. There must have been no blood in the veins of this grim old man, for the weather was far from cold and the streets were surprisingly dry for Chicago.
"I am closing the office for the day," said Droom. For no apparent reason a smile spread over the lower part of his face and Graydon, bold as he was, turned his eyes away.
"I thought I'd stop in and pick up the governor for a ride home in my motor," said he, turning to the door.
"Yours is one of the first out here, I suppose," came from the thin lips of the old clerk.
Graydon laughed.
"Possibly. The company charges a nickel a ride—half a dime—Going down, sir?" Graydon had rung for the elevator and was waiting in front of the grating.
A look containing a curious compound of affectionate reproach and a certain senile gratification at being made the object of the boy's condescending raillery crossed Droom's countenance. Without, however, answering his question, he slowly and carefully closed the door, tried it vigorously, and joined Bansemer at the shaft. With Droom, words were unnecessary when actions could speak for themselves.
"Still living over in Wells Street, Mr. Droom?" went on Graydon, thoroughly at home with the man whom he had feared and despised by stages from childhood up.
"It's good enough for me," said Droom shortly. "'Tisn't Michigan Avenue, the Drive or Lincoln Park Boulevard, but it's just as swell as I am—or ever hope to be."
"There's nothing against Wells Street but—it got ashamed of itself when it crossed the river."