think I had
so much around there. Awfully sorry, old man; I'd take it for you if I
could for any man in the world."

And the binder was affably passed back over the counter. But when, as
probably developed at this point, Mr. Cuyler was advised that his
remarks bore convincing traces of the proximity of an active
steam-radiator and that the broker knew perfectly well that the
Guardian hadn't a dollar at risk within three blocks--it was then that
the real contest began. Celluloid was a mighty hazardous article--was
Joe aware that in New York State alone the losses had been nearly three
times the premiums on the class? Perhaps this was accidental, but it
was a fact just the same. But after all, what else could one expect?
Celluloid was very much like gun-cotton--made out of practically the
same constituents--and only a little less dangerous to handle. It also
appeared that celluloid works all over the country had for the last
year been _unusually_ disastrous to the underwriters, and that the
President himself had written a letter on the subject to the various
rating bureaus. Honestly, it would be more than Cuyler, with all his
extreme desire to oblige, would dare do--to tell the old man that the
local department had written a celluloid factory. His good friend, the
caller, Mr. Cuyler felt certain, would not wish to see the venerable
hairs of the Guardian's local secretary trampled into the dust by the
infuriate heels of the board of directors, led by the outraged
President Wintermuth himself. No, he was extremely sorry, but he
simply--could not--take--the risk.

And take it he would not. Such was James Cuyler. For thirty years he
had stood at the Guardian's local threshold, fidelity personified, a
watch-dog extraordinary that could not have been duplicated in all
watchdogdom. He had but one superstition and but one grievance.

His superstition was that he would not allow a customer to enter the
office after the clock struck the first blow of five. At that moment,
if no employee was at hand, he himself would step out from behind the
counter, close the door, and turn the key in the lock. And the best
friend of the office could not have gained admission once the key was
turned.

"Why do I do it?" he would say. "My boy, at about half-past five P.M.
on June fourteenth, eighteen eighty-nine, I was alone in the office,
and Herman White, who used to be placer for Schmidt and Sulzbacher,
came in with a ten thou