hought him of Renton, an old foreman of his; a highly
intelligent fellow, who had come out to New York, some years before,
to better himself, and had so far succeeded that he now controlled
and practically owned a mammoth furnishing emporium--The Home Circle
Store--in Twenty-Third Street. Farrell was pretty sure of the
address; because Renton, who had long since taken out his papers of
naturalisation, regularly remembered his old employer on Thanksgiving
Day and sent him a report of his prosperity, mixed up with no little
sentiment. To this Farrell had for some years responded with a note
of his good wishes, cordial, but brief and businesslike. Of late,
however, this acknowledgment, though still punctual, had tended to
express itself in the form of a Christmas-card.

Farrell confirmed his recollection of the address by checking it in
the Telephone Book, and paid a call on the Home Circle Store next
afternoon, while Foe was enjoying a siesta in that state of lassitude
which (as I've told you) almost always in one or other of the men
followed their crises of animosity.

Renton was unaffectedly glad to see Farrell. "Well, Mr. Farrell," he
said, as they shook hands, "well, _sir!_ If this isn't a sight for
sore eyes! And--when I've been meaning, every fall, to step across
home and see your luck--to think that it should be you first dropping
in upon me!" He rushed Farrell up and down elevators, over floor
after floor of his great establishment, perspiring (for the afternoon
was hot), swelling with hospitality and pardonable pride. "And when
we've done, sir, I must take you to my little place up town and make
you acquainted with Mrs. Renton. She's not by any means the least
part of my luck, sir. She'll be all over it when I present you,
having so often heard tell--You've aged, Mr. Farrell! And yet,
in a way, you haven't. . . . You were putting on waist when I saw you
last, and now you're what-one-might-call in good condition--almost
thin. Yes, sir, I heard about your poor lady . . . I wrote about it,
if you remember. Sudden, as I understand? . . . But if you look at
it in one way, that's often for the best: and in the midst of life--
You'll be taking dinner with us. That's understood."

"Look here, Ned," Farrell interrupted. "It's done me good to shake
you by the hand and see you so flourishing. But I've looked you up
because--well, because I'm in a tight place, and I wonder if you
could anyways help."

"E