the street ran out to play in the snow
of a winter's night, or lingered after dusk before her own door when the
days grew dark early. It was so easy to catch and kiss her then, and
to talk to her foolishly at parties. Then came Dora Fitler, when he was
sixteen years old and she was fourteen; and Marjorie Stafford, when
he was seventeen and she was fifteen. Dora Fitter was a brunette, and
Marjorie Stafford was as fair as the morning, with bright-red cheeks,
bluish-gray eyes, and flaxen hair, and as plump as a partridge.

It was at seventeen that he decided to leave school. He had not
graduated. He had only finished the third year in high school; but he
had had enough. Ever since his thirteenth year his mind had been on
finance; that is, in the form in which he saw it manifested in Third
Street. There had been odd things which he had been able to do to earn
a little money now and then. His Uncle Seneca had allowed him to act
as assistant weigher at the sugar-docks in Southwark, where
three-hundred-pound bags were weighed into the government bonded
warehouses under the eyes of United States inspectors. In certain
emergencies he was called to assist his father, and was paid for it. He
even made an arrangement with Mr. Dalrymple to assist him on Saturdays;
but when his father became cashier of his bank, receiving an income
of four thousand dollars a year, shortly after Frank had reached his
fifteenth year, it was self-evident that Frank could no longer continue
in such lowly employment.

Just at this time his Uncle Seneca, again back in Philadelphia and
stouter and more domineering than ever, said to him one day:

"Now, Frank, if you're ready for it, I think I know where there's a good
opening for you. There won't be any salary in it for the first year, but
if you mind your p's and q's, they'll probably give you something as a
gift at the end of that time. Do you know of Henry Waterman & Company
down in Second Street?"

"I've seen their place."

"Well, they tell me they might make a place for you as a bookkeeper.
They're brokers in a way--grain and commission men. You say you want
to get in that line. When school's out, you go down and see Mr.
Waterman--tell him I sent you, and he'll make a place for you, I think.
Let me know how you come out."

Uncle Seneca was married now, having, because of his wealth, attracted
the attention of a poor but ambitious Philadelphia society matron;
and because of this the general conne