“You want something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!”

“Quite right, my boy. I’ll make a note of it. All right. Go on!”

I turned to George, who was muttering to himself in rather an overwrought way.

“I say, George, old man, who the dickens is that kid?”

Old George groaned a bit hollowly, as if things were a trifle thick.

“I didn’t know he had crawled in! It’s Blumenfield’s son. Now we’re going to have a Hades of a time!”

“Does he always run things like this?”

“Always!”

“But why does old Blumenfield listen to him?”