ways did, to look in the first store
window. In it was a weapon which he knew to be a Flobert Rifle. It was
something to be dreamed of, with its beautiful blued-steel octagon
barrel, its gleaming gold-plated locks and its polished stock. Bobby was
just under ten years old; but he could have told you all about that
Flobert Rifle--its weight, the length of its barrel, the number of
grains of both powder and lead loaded in its various cartridges. Among
his books he possessed a catalogue that described Flobert Rifles, and
also Shotguns and Revolvers. Bobby intoxicated himself with them. Twice
he had even seen his father's revolver; and he knew where it was
kept--on the top shelf of the closet. The very closet door gave him a
thrill.

Reluctantly he tore himself away, and turned in to the straight, broad
stairway that led to the offices above. The stairway, and the hall to
which it mounted were dark and smelled of old coco-matting and stale
tobacco. Bobby liked this smell very much. He liked, too, the echo of
his footsteps as he marched down the hall to the door of his father's
offices.

Within were several long, narrow desks burdened with large ledgers and
flanked by high stools. On each stool sat a clerk--five of them. An
iron "base burner" stove occupied the middle of the room. Its pipe ran
in suspension here and there through the upper air until it plunged
unexpectedly into the wall. A capacious wood-box flanked it. Bobby was
glad he did not have to fill that wood-box at a cent a time.

Against the walls at either end of the room and next the windows were
two roll-top desks at which sat Mr. Orde and his partner. Two or three
pivoted chairs completed the furnishings.

"Hullo, Bobby," called Mr. Orde, who was talking earnestly to a man;
"I'll be ready in a few minutes."

Nothing pleased Bobby more than to wander about the place with its
delicious "office smell." At one end of the room, nailed against the
wall, were rows and rows of beautifully polished models of the firm's
different tugs, barges and schooners. Bobby surveyed them with both
pleasure and regret. It seemed a shame that such delightful boats should
have been built only in half and nailed immovably to boards. Against
another wall were maps, and a real deer's head. Everywhere hung framed
photographs of logging camps and lumbering operations. From any one of
the six long windows he could see the street below, and those who passed
along it. Time never hung h