here,
he will see something that will astonish him. I'm going tomorrow in my
private car, and if you could go along, I assure you a good time. I want
you to see for yourself, and I guess you would. Don't take my word. I
can't give you any passes, and I know you don't want any, but you can
just get into my private car and no expense to anybody, and see all
there is to be seen. Ask Goss, and let me know tonight."

The young fellow went off feeling several inches higher than when
he came in. Such is the power of a good address, and such is the
omnipotence of the great organ. Mr. Jerry Hollowell sat down and began
to fan himself. It was very hot in the office.

"Seems to me it's lunch-time. Great Scott! what a lot of time I used to
waste fighting the newspapers! That thing would have played the devil as
it stood. It will be comparatively harmless now. It will make a little
talk, but there is nothing to get hold of. Queer, about the difference
of a word or two. Come, old man, I'm thirsty."

"Uncle Jerry," said Henderson, taking his arm as they went out, "you
ought to be President of the United States."

"The salary is too small," said Uncle Jerry.

Of all this there was nothing to write to Margaret, who was passing
her time agreeably in the Berkshire hills, a little impatient for her
husband's arrival, postponed from day to day, and full of sympathy for
him, condemned to the hot city and the harassment of a business the
magnitude of which gave him the obligations and the character of a
public man. Henderson sent her instead a column from The Planet devoted
to a description of his private library. Mr. Goss, the editor, who was
college bred, had been round to talk with Henderson about the Southwest
trip, and the conversation drifting into other matters, Henderson had
taken from his desk and shown him a rare old book which he had picked
up the day before in a second-hand shop. This led to further talk
about Henderson's hobby, and the editor had asked permission to send a
reporter down to make a note of Henderson's collection. It would make
a good midsummer item, "The Stock-Broker in Literature," "The Private
Tastes of a Millionaire," etc. The column got condensed into a portable
paragraph, and went the rounds of the press, and changed the opinions
of a good many people about the great operator--he wasn't altogether
devoted to vulgar moneymaking. Uncle Jerry himself read the column with
appreciation of its value. "It divert