Chapter 8: Andy of the Motor-Trucks.

The man behind the wicket leaned forward to survey the man outside. The gate-keeper at the main entrance to Adriance’s was the prey of a double vanity that kept his attention alert: he was vain of his own position, and of his ability to judge the positions of other men. This was his seventeenth year in the cage of ornamental iron-work, and he had brought his hobby into it with his first day there. He delighted in difficult subjects, now, who baffled a casual inspection.

It was, therefore, with an air of bored certainty that he classified this morning visitor at a glance, and settled back on his high stool.

“Office door to the right, sir,” he directed, briefly, but respectfully. “Boy there will take in your card, sir.”

“I understand chauffeurs are wanted here,” said the visitor, his composed gaze dwelling on a poster to that effect affixed to the nearest wall.

The gate-keeper stared.

“I guess so——?”

“Is the office the place where I should apply for such work?”

“Trucking department; turn left, down basement, Mr. Ransome,” vouchsafed the chagrined concierge, severely wounded in his self-esteem. So blatant a mistake had not offended his pride in years. He turned in his seat and craned his thin neck to watch the stranger swing blithely away in the direction indicated.

“Chauffeur!” he muttered. “Walks as if Adriance’s was his private garage an’ he was buildin’ himself a better one around the corner! Hope Ransome throws him out!”

But Ransome of the motor-trucks was in urgent need of men and disposed to be more tolerant. Moreover, his sensitive vanity had taken no hurt that morning. But he looked rather closely at the applicant, nevertheless.

“Used to chauffing private cars, aren’t you?” he shrewdly questioned.

“Yes,” admitted Adriance.

“I thought so! Where was your last place?”

“I drove for Mr. Adriance, junior,” was the grave response.

The man whistled.

“You did, eh? Why did he fire you?”

“He left New York for the winter, without taking his machines along.”

“Did he give you a reference?”

“I can bring one to-morrow, or I can go get it now, if you want me to start work at once. I haven’t it with me.”

“Why not?”

“I forgot it would be needed.”

This was unusual, and produced a pause. Ransome studied his man, and liked what he saw.

“Married?” he shot the next routine question.

“Yes.”

“Anything against you on the police records? Accidents? Overspeeding?”

“Nothing.”

“I can see you don’t drink. You know Jersey?”

“Not so well as New York, but well enough to pick up the rest as I go along.”

“Well, it’s irregular, but we’re short-handed. Give me your license number so I can verify that. Bring your reference to-morrow, and if it is all right—— I’ll take you on to-day, on trial. Wait; I’ll give you your card.”