what he wanted--a small leathern case with a dozen cards in
it. In the centre of the card appeared 'Dick Elliott,' neatly printed;
while in the corner, in quaint Old English lettering, was his address,
'The Croft, Birchfields,' being the names of the house and suburb in
which he lived. The card was his own achievement, produced on his own
model printing-press, and he was rather proud of it.

He entered the inquiry office on the ground-floor, and the clerk in
charge came forward with a smile.

'I say, Bailey,' said Dick, 'you might take this up to my father, will
you?'

The clerk took the card, looked at it, and then at Dick, and went
without a word; but his smile was now a grin. In a short time he came
back, and murmured, 'This way, please,' and Dick followed, very serious
and thoughtful, and in no wise responding to Bailey's unending grin.

Dick was shown into the room of the senior partner, who was looking at
his visitor's card, and now glanced up with a humorous twirl of his eye.

'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said--'Mr. Dick Elliott, I think'--glancing at
the card again. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elliott. Won't you sit
down? And now what can I do for you?'

'I have called upon you, sir,' said Dick, 'in the hopes of enlisting
your sympathy on behalf of a worthy object and a noble cause.'

Dick had collared this opening from the heading of a subscription-list,
and he thought it sounded stunning. He felt sure it would impress the
senior partner. It did: that gentleman's emotion was deep; he only
kept it within bounds by biting his lips hard.

'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said, 'you are, I suppose, in quest of a
donation?'

'Well, not exactly,' replied Mr. Elliott; 'I should like to tell you a
little story.'

'Charmed,' murmured the senior partner; 'but I hope it will be a little
story, Mr. Elliott, as I and my partner are due very shortly at an
important meeting of dock directors.'

Dick plunged at once into his narration, and the senior partner
listened attentively, without putting in a single word.

'I see, Mr. Elliott--I see,' he remarked, when Dick had made an end of
the story of Chippy's troubles; 'you are in search of a post for your
friend?'

'I should be uncommonly glad to find him something,' murmured Dick.

'I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person, Mr. Elliott,' said the
shipowner. 'I believe there are some small fry of that kind about the
place who fetch parcels from the docks, and that kind of