crawled upon it his
attitude changed from superiority to servility.

"This way, sir, if you please," said he, wheeling about.

Carl followed his guide, feeling, as he tagged across the silencing
rug, deplorably small, and painfully conscious of both his hands and
feet. He and his conductor passed through another door, threaded
labyrinthian aisles flanked by gaping clerks and faintly smiling
stenographers, and came at length to a third door which the youth
preceding him opened with a flourish.

"Mr. Carl McGregor," announced he in a stentorian tone.

All the blood in Carl's body rushed to his face.

The room before him was small and on its warmly tinted walls a few
pictures, some of which his school training led him to recognize as
Rembrandt reproductions, lent charm and interest to the interior. But
these details were of minor importance compared to the thrill he
experienced at discovering behind a great mahogany desk the mysterious
stranger of his motoring adventure.

Yes, it was he--there could be no question about that. And yet, now
that his hat and heavy fur coat were removed he appeared surprisingly
slender and youthful. His eyes, too, seemed bluer, his cheeks redder,
and his mouth more smiling.

"Well, shaver, you're prompt," announced he, pointing to the clock with
evident satisfaction.

"You said ten, sir."

"So I did. Nevertheless, I often say ten and get quarter past ten or
even eleven o'clock. Sit down."

He motioned toward a huge leather chair at his elbow and slipping into
it the boy perched with anticipation on its forward edge.

"Well, what about that Miss Harling we were talking of yesterday? Has
she a position yet?"

"Since last night, you mean? I don't know, sir. I haven't seen any of
the Harlings to-day. But I hardly think so."

The stranger pursed his lips.

"Too bad! Too bad!" he murmured. "And you are still for helping the
family out by taking a job, are you?"

"If I can get one; yes, sir."

"Just what kind of work had you in mind?"

"Why--I--I--hadn't thought about it."

"I suppose you go to school."

"Yes, sir. That's the dickens of it. My mother makes me. I'd a great
deal rather go into Davis and Coulter's cotton mills. Lots of boys and
girls my age do go there, and that is where my father worked before he
died. But Ma is hot on education. She says I've got to have one, and
she insists on sewing at home on all sorts of fool flummeries for some
dressmaker so I can. It's