The thing's absurd. Where is the office? Richmond Street? Come
along, I'll go with you. I've always a great liking for attending to
other people's business."

"I see you have," I said.

"It's our way here," said Mr. Narrowpath with a wave of his hand. "Every
man's business, as we see it, is everybody else's business. Come along,
you'll be surprised how quickly your business will be done."

Mr. Narrowpath was right.

My publishers' office, as we entered it, seemed a changed place.
Activity and efficiency were stamped all over it. My good friend the
publisher was not only there, but there with his coat off, inordinately
busy, bawling orders--evidently meant for a printing room--through
a speaking tube. "Yes," he was shouting, "put WHISKY in black letter
capitals, old English, double size, set it up to look attractive, with
the legend MADE IN TORONTO in long clear type underneath--"

"Excuse me," he said, as he broke off for a moment. "We've a lot of
stuff going through the press this morning--a big distillery catalogue
that we are rushing through. We're doing all we can, Mr. Narrowpath,"
he continued, speaking with the deference due to a member of the City
Council, "to boom Toronto as a Whisky Centre."

"Quite right, quite right!" said my companion, rubbing his hands.

"And now, professor," added the publisher, speaking with rapidity, "your
contract is all here--only needs signing. I won't keep you more than a
moment--write your name here. Miss Sniggins will you please witness this
so help you God how's everything in Montreal good morning."

"Pretty quick, wasn't it?" said Mr. Narrowpath, as we stood in the
street again.

"Wonderful!" I said, feeling almost dazed. "Why, I shall be able to
catch the morning train back again to Montreal--"

"Precisely. Just what everybody finds. Business done in no time. Men who
used to spend whole days here clear out now in fifteen minutes. I knew a
man whose business efficiency has so increased under our new regime that
he says he wouldn't spend more than five minutes in Toronto if he were
paid to."

"But what is this?" I asked as we were brought to a pause in our walk
at a street crossing by a great block of vehicles. "What are all these
drays? Surely, those look like barrels of whisky!"

"So they are," said Mr. Narrowpath proudly. "_Export_ whisky. Fine
sight, isn't it? Must be what?--twenty--twenty-five--loads of it. This
place, sir, mark my words, is going to prove, wit