"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Eight

 

The door opened briskly, and a young man walked in, swiveling his head around inquisitively as he looked around. He was about nineteen years old, taller than me, lanky, and his neat clothes seemed to have come out of some of the better second-hand shops. His face was rather bony with bulging blue eyes that crinkled humorously as they landed on me.

“Well, I don’t think you’re Mr. Williams, are you?” he said dismissively.

I pointed to the desk

“No, he’s out. There’s a note.”

 

He marched over, picked it up, read it, then snapped it down again.

“Mm-hm.” He glanced around quickly, assessing the room, then stepped to the bench seat right in front of the desk and sat down. He was still in talking distance but had positioned himself so he would be right in front of Mr. Williams’ line of sight. He looked down at me triumphantly, as if he had gained the high ground. He reached out a patronising hand.

“Howard Ransom Rank, come to be an agent, sir. And you are?”

“Bob,” I said, and we shook hands briefly.

Rank sat back.

“Bob, eh? And what do you do here, Bob? Page or something, I suppose?”

“No, no. Here to be an agent myself, in fact,” I said mildly.