on the
more costly buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would
wake up to the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less
ugly--even if it did cost a little more. Still a third group were in
shouts of laughter over a story told by one of the staff who had just
returned from an inspection trip west.

Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a moment
a couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to each other
in mock ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from the borrowed
flagons, then glanced toward his friend Minott, just then the centre of
a cyclone that was stirring the group midway the table.

"Come over here, Garry," he called, half rising to his feet to attract
his friend's attention.

Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the story had
been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the table.

"Garry," he whispered, "I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson--the very
dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life. Sits right next
to me."

"What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high
collar?" muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. "We've been
wondering where Mr. Morris dug him up."

"Hush," said Breen--"he'll hear you."

"All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad when
you get close to him."

"Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott."

Peter rose to his feet. "I DO know him," he said, holding out his hand
cordially. "I've been knowing him all the evening. He's made most of
the fun at his end of the table. You seem to have flaunted your Corn
Exchange banner on the smallest provocation, Mr. Minott," and Peter's
fingers gripped those of the young man.

"That's because I've been in charge of the inside work. Great dinner,
isn't it, Mr. Grayson. But it's Britton who has made the dinner. He's
more fun than a Harlem goat with a hoopskirt. See him--that's Brit with
a red head and blue neck-tie. He's been all winter in Wisconsin looking
after some iron work and has come back jam full of stories." The dignity
of Peter's personality had evidently not impressed the young man,
judging from the careless tone with which he addressed him. "And how are
you getting on, Jack--glad you came, ar'n't you?" As he spoke he laid his
hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Didn't I tell you it would
be a corker? Out of sight, isn't it? Everything is out of sight around
our offic