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... And Son
It was raining hard in Johannesburg one morning a few years ago when a very young man saw that he was going to be late to his new job with the Anglo American Corporation of South Africa. He hurried. He ran up the soaking steps of the corporation's impressive building in Main Street that with its subsidiaries occupies a large hunk of Johannesburg's financial district; and he ran into one of the elevators and stood im­patiently, his raincoat dripping, while it carried him to the correct floor. Then, dashing down the corridor at least ten min­utes past the proper time for starting work, he was briefly grati­fied when somebody ahead of him, seeing him approach like a cannon ball, paused and held open a door for him.
"It was a little old fellow in a raincoat something like mine but not so new," he said later in horrified tones. "Such a quiet little man, so polite, that I must have had a vague idea, if I thought about it at all, that he was somebody who worked around the place like a kind of older office boy. Mind you, I wasn't much more than an office boy myself. I just said, 'Thanks!' and nodded in a lordly way as I swept past, and it