.
This was not his usual style, and he was ashamed of it, as he
considered his weakness.

"Make or break!" exclaimed he, slapping his hand upon his chest, and
throwing his shoulders back, as if to stiffen his frame. "I'll stick to
it till something breaks. This is a new business, and I must _make_ the
trade."

The effect of this slapping of the chest and this stiffening of the
frame was immediately apparent in his demeanor, for they were the
visible manifestations of a firm will. He was more cheerful, answered
inquiries more briskly, and was less affected by adverse criticism of
his handicraft. Men asked the price, sneered, and turned away. There
were plenty to admire his workmanship, but as yet none to buy. While
Leo was thus struggling against the tide of fortune, the crowd opened,
and Mr. Checkynshaw appeared within the ring. He was a great man, and
he showed it in his manner--perhaps more in his manner than in any
other way.

Mrs. Wittleworth had taken leave of the banker an hour before, and
since that time he had been alone in his private office, only
occasionally interrupted by a business call. Mr. Checkynshaw was
troubled. Fitz was a thorn in his flesh and a stumbling-block in his
path. Doubtless it was very annoying for the father of Marguerite to
break up the educational and social relations she had sustained from
early childhood. Doubtless it was very wicked of Fitz to put him to all
this trouble for nothing. Perhaps it was rash in him to discharge his
clerk; but Fitz was so airy and impudent, that a decent self-respect
would not permit him to tolerate his insolence.

Mr. Checkynshaw wrote a letter, upon which he labored for a long time;
for the letter appeared to be full of difficulties. He finished it at
last; but, instead of enclosing it in an envelope, he folded it up and
put it into his pocket. Then he took his hat, drew on his overcoat, and
went out. He visited a stationery store in the lower part of the
street, purchased some French paper and envelopes, and walked up the
street till he saw the crowd in front of the Exchange, which had
gathered around the "_Hotel des Mice_."

"What have you here, boy?" he asked, when he recognized Leo.

"White mice, sir. My father can't work now, and I am going to try and
make something by selling them," replied Leo, cheerfully.

"What is the price?" demanded the banker, rather curtly.

"Six dollars, sir."

"I'll take it, boy," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, with a