He's a comfortable
sort of man."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Narrowpath. "Not at work at half-past
seven! In Toronto! The thing's absurd. Where is the
office? Richmond Street? Come along, I'll go with you.
I've always a great liking for attending to other people's
business."
"I see you have," I said.
"It's our way here," said Mr. Narrowpath with a wave of
his hand. "Every man's business, as we see it, is everybody
else's business. Come along, you'll be surprised how
quickly your business will be done."
Mr. Narrowpath was right.
My publishers' office, as we entered it, seemed a changed
place. Activity and efficiency were stamped all over it.
My good friend the publisher was not only there, but
there with his coat off, inordinately busy, bawling
orders--evidently meant for a printing room--through a
speaking tube. "Yes," he was shouting, "put WHISKY in
black letter capitals, old English, double size, set it
up to look attractive, with the legend MADE IN TORONTO
in long clear type underneath--"
"Excuse me," he said, as he broke off for a moment. "We've
a lot of stuff going through the press this morning--a
big distillery catalogue that we are rushing through.
We're doing all we can, Mr.
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