f
as the cab sped on. "I'll find out what it is when I know him better.
To-night when Mr. Grayson comes I'll study it out," and a joyous smile
flashed across his features as he thought of the treat in store for him.

When at last the boy reached his office, where, behind the mahogany
partition with its pigeon-hole cut through the glass front he sat every
day, he swung back the doors of the safe, took out his books and papers
and made ready for work. He had charge of the check book, and he alone
signed the firm's name outside of the partners. "Rather young," one of
them protested, until he looked into the boy's face, then he gave his
consent; something better than years of experience and discretion are
wanted where a scratch of a pen might mean financial ruin.

Breen had preceded him with but a nod to his clerks, and had disappeared
into his private office--another erection of ground glass and mahogany.
Here the senior member of the firm shut the door carefully, and turning
his back fished up a tiny key attached to a chain leading to the rear
pocket of his trousers. With this he opened a small closet near his
desk--a mere box of a closet--took from it a squatty-shaped decanter
labelled "Rye, 1840," poured out half a glass, emptied it into his
person with one gulp, and with the remark in a low voice to himself that
he was now "copper fastened inside and out"--removed all traces of the
incident and took up his morning's mail.

By this time the circle of chairs facing the huge blackboard in the
spacious outer office had begun to fill up. Some of the customers,
before taking their seats, hurried anxiously to the ticker, chattering
away in its glass case; others turned abruptly and left the room without
a word. Now and then a customer would dive into Breen's private room,
remain a moment and burst out again, his face an index of the condition
of his bank account.

When the chatter of the ticker had shifted from the London quotations
to the opening sales on the Exchange, a sallow-faced clerk mounted a low
step-ladder and swept a scurry of chalk marks over the huge blackboard,
its margin lettered with the initials of the principal stocks. The
appearance of this nimble-fingered young man with his piece of chalk
always impressed Jack as a sort of vaudeville performance. On ordinary
days, with the market lifeless, but half of the orchestra seats would be
occupied. In whirl-times, with the ticker spelling ruin, not only were
th