t's silence. Then a heavy-voiced gentleman took up a
pen and said:

"Is this man's name Dreyfus--or--or what is it?"

"Let me think," returned the president, returning once more to the
Commerce; "Dreyfus?--no--not Dreyfus--yes--no. Paying teller--hum--it's
curious I can't recall--it commences with an F--FIELDS--yes, Fields!
that's his name--Fields, to be sure!"

The questioner at once wrote down the word on the paper.

"This is the second time that he has applied for this favor, is it not?"
formally inquired another of the thirteen, in the tone that a judge uses
when he asks the clerk, "Has he not been before me on a former
occasion?"

"Yes," replied the president, "this is a renewal of an effort made six
months ago."

There was a general movement. Several chairs rolled back, and their
occupants exchanged querulous glances.

"Suppose we hear the letter read," suggested a fair soul. "Perhaps"--a
septuagenarian, with snowy hair and a thin body, clad in the clerical
guise of the old school, and who had made a fortune by inventing a
hat-block, arose hastily to his feet, and said:

"I cannot stay to listen to a dun!"

A chorus from the majority echoed the exclamation. All but four
staggered to their feet, and tottered off in various directions; some to
pretend to look out at the window, and some to the wardrobes, where was
deposited their outer clothing.

"Clarks," stammered the feeble hatter, feeling vainly for the arm-holes
in his great-coat--"clarks presume on their value. Turn 'em out, say I.
Give 'em a chance to rotate. You've got my opinion, Mr. President.
Refuse what's-his-name, Fields. Tell him he's happy and well off now,
without knowing it. Where _can_ be the sleeves to--to this"--his
voice expired in his perplexity.

Fields's cause looked blue. One director after another groped to the
door, saying, as he went, "I can't encourage it, Mr. President--tell him
'No,' Mr. President--it would only make the rest uneasy if we allowed
it--plenty more to fill his place."

The hatter's voice stopped further mention of the subject. He stood at
one end of the apartment in a paroxysm of laughter. Tears filled his
eyes. He pointed to another director, who, at the other extremity of the
room, was also puzzling over a coat. "There's Stuart with my mackintosh!
He's trying to _put it on--_and here am I with _his_ coat trying to put
_that_ on. I--I said to myself, 'This is pretty large for a slim man
like you.'--Great