osed?"

"Dyckman's there," was the answer; and they left the breakfast-room
together to go around the block and have themselves lifted to the fifth
floor of the Coosa Building, where half a dozen gilt-lettered glass
doors advertised the administrative headquarters of Chiawassee
Consolidated.

If Caleb Gordon had been mildly bewildered by the outward and instantly
visible changes in his college-bred son, he was quite lost in wondering
admiration when the young man had climbed fairly into the business
saddle and gathered his grip on the reins. Notwithstanding the fact of
his stock-holding, Caleb the iron-master had always stood a little in
awe of the general office grandeurs; of chief priest Dyckman in
particular. But Tom seemed to recognize no distinctions of class, age,
or previous condition of overlordship. Dyckman was found busily lounging
in the absent president's easy-chair, smoking a good cigar and reading
the morning papers. At the outset he was inclined to be genially
supercilious, thus:

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Gordon! Hello, Tom! Back from college, are you?
The books and papers? They are over in the vaults of the Iron City
National--by Mr. Farley's orders. I suppose he thought they'd be safer
there in case of fire. Won't you sit down and have a fresh cigar?"

What Tom said, or the precise wording of it, Caleb could never remember.
But the staccato sentence or two had the effect of instantly
electrifying Mr. Dyckman. Certainly; whatever Mr. Thomas desired should
be done. He--Dyckman--had had no notice of the change in the plans of
the company, and Mr. Farley's instructions--

Tom cut the oath of fealty short and stated his desires succinctly. The
bookkeeper was to reassemble his office force immediately, taking
particular care to reinstate Norman, the correspondence man. That done,
he was to prepare full and complete exhibits of the company's condition:
assets, liabilities, contracts, in short, the results in statement form
of a thorough and searching house-cleaning in the accounting and
administrative departments.

"I am going to put you on your good behavior, Dyckman," said the new
tyrant in conclusion, driving the words home with a shrewd sword-thrust
of the gray eyes. "At first I thought I'd bring an expert accountant
down here from New York and put him on your books; but I'm going to
spare you that--on one condition. Those exhibits must be made absolutely
without fear or favor; they must contain the e