Babbing said. “Come in at 1056.” He turned to a ’phone. “Tell Snider I ’ll see him.” He pressed a call button. “You ’ll have to start by learning to speak the English language,” he admonished Barney. “We haven’t cases enough on the Bowery to keep you working where people say ‘I toler I was waiten’ when they mean ‘I told her I was waiting.’ ” He changed the switches on an office ’phone. “Bring me my schedule.” He said to Barney: “Stay where you are. I ’ll have something for you in a moment.”
Doors began to open, unexpectedly, on all sides. A stenographer appeared, with a note book, sat down to face Babbing across the desk, and prepared himself and his fountain pen to take dictation. Archibald, the office manager—a grizzled old man, with the lean mouth of a prelate—brought a list of Babbing’s appointments for the day and discussed them with him, deferentially. An operative, who proved to be “Chal” Snider from Chicago, drifted in as if he were casually inter-
