o
pass at least several weeks, two salesmen, with their memoranda in
their hands, bustled into the counting-room, each attended by a
customer, to whom he had sold a bill of lumber. They had been informed
by Land of the debut of the new entry clerk, and they read off their
sales to me, which I entered upon the book, giving them bills for the
purchasers. One of them paid his bill, and I was looking for the cash
book when Mr. Whippleton made his appearance.

"So you are really at work, Philip," said he, as he glanced at the
sales book.

"Yes, sir; I have made a beginning. I was looking for the cash book,
sir."

"I keep the cash book myself," added he, in a manner which indicated
that I was not to meddle with it.

But I found enough to do in making bills and charges. It was early in
the spring, and there was a great deal of building in the city.
Business was very driving, and I had all I could do. It was the same
thing over and over again all day long; but I enjoyed my occupation in
spite of its monotony.

About nine o'clock Mr. Richard Collingsby entered the counting-room. He
passed my desk, glanced at me, and entered the sacred precincts of his
sanctorum. Mr. Whippleton immediately made him a visit, and doubtless
informed his senior that he had engaged an entry clerk. I did not see
the dignified partner again till he left the counting-room at two
o'clock. He did not even glance at me this time, and probably had no
suspicion that he had ever seen me before. I was too insignificant a
mortal to engage his attention even for a single instant. Yet he was my
own uncle, though I might be in the same office with him for years
without his knowing the fact.

At twelve o'clock I went to dinner. As I passed through the yard, I saw
lying on the bank of the river a beautiful sail-boat, which attracted
my attention. It was about thirty feet long, and had quite a large
cabin in the forward part. I had hardly ever seen a sail-boat, and I
was much interested in her.

"Whose is this?" I asked, as Land Limpedon joined me on his way to
dinner.

"Mr. Whippleton's; he's a regular water bird, and in the summer he
spends all his spare time in that boat."

"Does he sail on this river?" I asked, glancing at the muddy lagoon.

"No; he takes her out on the lake, and goes off for a fortnight in her,
when he can spare the time."

I had had some experience with boats on the upper Missouri, and had
some taste for them, though I had never