n the _escritoire_ behind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After
receiving a petulant reprimand, Mortimer returns to his desk; and again
that weary, weary pen scratches over the paper.

After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint looks over the bill-book,
and startles the orphan from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on
'Change. He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a bit of silver
coin.

"Get some apples for yourself, Tim."

Tim (he's small of his age) slides down from the high stool with agility,
while his two eyes look like interrogation points. He is wondering at this
sudden outbreak of munificence, for though "Mr. Mortimer" always had a kind
word for Tim, and tried to extricate him from the web of mistakes which Tim
was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim never knew him to come down
with the "block tin" before, as he eloquently expressed it; and he looks at
Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and pauses a moment at the
door to see if he doesn't repent.

When Tim's feet cease sounding on the stairs, Mortimer goes into the back
office, and with the key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks a
small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn over package after
package; at last he finds one which seems to be the object of his search.
This he hastily conceals in the bosom of his coat. After carefully
re-locking the safe, he approaches the _escritoire_ to return the purloined
key, but to his dismay he finds the drawer locked. The one above it,
however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he places the key in its right
compartment.

Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he has hidden in his bosom, had
removed several others from the safe; but in his nervousness he had
neglected to replace a small morocco case. He discovers his negligence, and
hears foot-falls on the stairs at the same moment. There is no time to
re-open the chest: he wraps the case in his handkerchief, and resumes his
place at the desk.

Tim returns munching the remains of a gigantic apple, and bearing about him
a convicting smell of peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is
necessitated to swallow the core of his russet without that usual
preparatory mastication which nature's kindly law suggests. Mr. Flint has
made a capital bargain on 'Change, and his face is lighted up with a smile,
if fancy can coax such an expression into one. It looks like a gas-light in
an undertaker's window.

It is five o'c