ting favorite ships and
steamboats, and a huge safe stood wide open, displaying shelves and
drawers filed with books and papers. It was, indeed, a part of the
firm's philosophy that what you lacked in substance you must make up in
show.

There, too, was a door leading into Topman's private office, furnished
with exquisite good taste. Topman was the great financial monument of
the firm. Gusher did the elegant and ornamental.

George Peabody, the great philanthropist, made his fortune and his fame
in a little dark, dingy office in Warnford Court, London. The
pretensions of the great firm of Topman and Gusher were not to be
confined by any such examples of economy.

A very clerical-looking man, with a round, smooth face, a somewhat
portly figure, a high forehead, and a very bald, bright head, fringed
with grey hair, and nicely trimmed grey side whiskers, stood at a desk,
turning and re-turning the leaves of a big ledger. He was dressed in a
neat black suit, and wore a white neckerchief. There was ledger No. 1,
and ledger No. 2, and ledger No. 3, all so elegantly bound, and
expressive of the business relations of the great firm of Topman and
Gusher. It looked very much, however, as if the portly gentleman was
only a part of the ornamental department of the great firm, for, having
turned and re-turned the pages of No. 1, he would take up No. 2, and
continue the occupation. It is true, he would pause now and then, and
exchange a smile and a bow with some one of the customers waiting for
stock.

There was also a slender, mild-mannered, and precisely-dressed young
man, standing at another desk, and looking through a pair of
gold-framed spectacles into a ledger. This was Mr. Foblins, registry
clerk to the great firm. Mr. Foblins had a brigade of figures in column,
and seemed continually busy putting them through a course of tactics
known only to the firm. Mr. Foblins had his customers in column, with
the number of shares and the amount invested, in front and rear ranks.

The word "Cashier" was painted over a third desk. And here a rollicking,
talkative little man, with a round fat face, and a round bald head--a
sort of fat boy that had been overtaken on the road of life by
maturity--and who seemed to have a joke and a pleasant word for
everybody, and was in the best of humor with himself, stood counting and
re-counting, and passing out and receiving in money. This was Mr. Books,
the merry little man of the establishment. B