uch
was the headquarters, from an external aspect, of one of the oldest,
safest, and best of local companies, which invariably, for brevity, was
known to friends and foes alike as "The Guardian of New York."

Entering the somewhat narrow vestibule, the visitor found himself in a
small and gloomy hall, confronted by two debilitated grille elevator
doors which seemed sadly to need oiling, the elevators behind which
carried conservatively and without precipitancy those who wished to
ascend. The two individuals who directed the leisurely progress of
these cars were elderly men who, like most of those in the Guardian's
employment, had been in the service of the company since it moved into
the "new" building. This migration had occurred about the time that
torch-light parades were marching up Broadway to the rhythmic cheers
for "Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!" It is a melancholy truth that
in a generation and a half eyes grow dim and limbs falter, but in the
opinion of the Guardian's management the fact that a man was no longer
as young as he had once been was no valid reason, unless he were
actually incompetent, why he should not be allowed to continue doing
the best he could. President Wintermuth himself had once been
considerably younger, and he knew it. He called all his old employees
by their first names, and unless there rose a question of fidelity, he
would no sooner have thought of discharging one of them than he would
have thought of going home and discharging his wife. Some of the older
ones, indeed, antedated Mr. Wintermuth himself, and still regarded him
with the kindly tolerance of the days when they were the _cognoscenti_,
and he the neophyte, learning the ropes at their hands.

One of the oldest in tenure, but a man incurably young for all that,
was James Cuyler, the head of the company's local department, in charge
of all the business of the Metropolitan District, and an underwriter as
well known to the fraternity as the asphalt pavement of the street.
The Guardian's local department, which occupied the entire first floor
of the building, except the elevator space, was a busy place from nine
o'clock till five on ordinary days and from nine till one on Saturdays.
Hour after hour, day after day, year after year, Mr. Cuyler stood
behind his long map counter, his genial but penetrating eye instantly
assessing each man that approached, sifting with quick glance the
business offered, and detecting almost