filled with
his customer's name, James Teague. That was his real name, not the one
by which he was known to the stage and to fame. That was far more
aristocratical.

As Rumble handed Teague the ticket and the ten dollars, he took a
stealthy survey of his slender and poorly-clad form, then glanced
toward the window on which great flakes of snow were constantly
beating, driven against it by the wind that howled fiendishly as it
went through the street, playing havoc with shutters and making the
swinging sign-boards creak uncannily.

"Mr. Dixon," said the pawnbroker, turning to Teague's companion, "will
not you and your friend wait awhile until the storm slackens? It is
pleasanter here by the fire than it is outside."

His visitors agreed with him and accepted his invitation. They seated
themselves beside the stove which stood in the center of the room,
and from which, through little plates of isinglass, shone cheerful
light from a bed of fiery coals. Both leaned back in their chairs;
both turned the palms of their hands toward the stove, to receive the
grateful heat; and when the old pawnbroker joined them, smiling
genially as he sank into his great arm-chair, which seemed to have
been made expressly for his capacious form, the same thought came to
both of his guests. To this thought Dixon gave expression.

"Mr. Rumble," he asked, "how happened it that you became a pawnbroker?"

"Well, I might say that it was by chance," replied Rumble. "I was not
bred to the business."

"I thought not," answered Dixon, as he and his friend exchanged
knowing glances.

"I was a weaver by trade," continued Rumble, "and until two years ago
worked at that calling in England, where I was born. But I made little
money at it, and when an aunt, at her death, left me five hundred
pounds, I decided to come to this country and go into a new
business."

"But what put it into your head to choose that of a pawnbroker?" asked
Dixon.

"Because everybody told me that larger profits were made in it than in
any other. You see I am getting on in years, and I have a daughter for
whom I must provide. When I die I want to leave her enough to make her
comfortable."

The street door was opened and for a moment the room was made
decidedly uncomfortable by a cold blast accompanied by driving snow.
Again the windows rattled, the armor clanked, and the hanging suits
swung and shook their armless sleeves in the air.

A tall, slight young man, clad in