obster had the squid as prey. What was the result
to be? What else could it be? He didn't have a chance," he concluded
finally, as he trotted on homeward.

The incident made a great impression on him. It answered in a rough way
that riddle which had been annoying him so much in the past: "How is
life organized?" Things lived on each other--that was it. Lobsters lived
on squids and other things. What lived on lobsters? Men, of course!
Sure, that was it! And what lived on men? he asked himself. Was it other
men? Wild animals lived on men. And there were Indians and cannibals.
And some men were killed by storms and accidents. He wasn't so sure
about men living on men; but men did kill each other. How about wars and
street fights and mobs? He had seen a mob once. It attacked the Public
Ledger building as he was coming home from school. His father had
explained why. It was about the slaves. That was it! Sure, men lived on
men. Look at the slaves. They were men. That's what all this excitement
was about these days. Men killing other men--negroes.

He went on home quite pleased with himself at his solution.

"Mother!" he exclaimed, as he entered the house, "he finally got him!"

"Got who? What got what?" she inquired in amazement. "Go wash your
hands."

"Why, that lobster got that squid I was telling you and pa about the
other day."

"Well, that's too bad. What makes you take any interest in such things?
Run, wash your hands."

"Well, you don't often see anything like that. I never did." He went
out in the back yard, where there was a hydrant and a post with a little
table on it, and on that a shining tin-pan and a bucket of water. Here
he washed his face and hands.

"Say, papa," he said to his father, later, "you know that squid?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's dead. The lobster got him."

His father continued reading. "Well, that's too bad," he said,
indifferently.

But for days and weeks Frank thought of this and of the life he was
tossed into, for he was already pondering on what he should be in this
world, and how he should get along. From seeing his father count money,
he was sure that he would like banking; and Third Street, where his
father's office was, seemed to him the cleanest, most fascinating street
in the world.

Chapter II

The growth of young Frank Algernon Cowperwood was through years of what
might be called a comfortable and happy family existence. Buttonwood
Street, where he spent the first