working of the world of to-day. Your first-class office boy inspires fear. He knows his indispensability; he knows that more than anything else the boss loathes the trouble of hiring an office boy; he knows—oh! what does he not know? You who have never had to do with him, or depend upon him, go sit at the feet of him who has and try to grasp the outer rim of understanding as to the depth and height and width of the wisdom and learning, the profound knowledge of the only human being to whom the Kings of Finance and Commerce (see any daily paper) appear as they really are—just men.

Sometimes an office boy is beloved—and that not always—for the virtues that tell most in actual work. Or may be a streak of cheeriness in the otherwise inscrutable bearing; it may be a confiding, "Oh! may I trust in you, boss?" kind of manner; it may be that in the man who hires him there still remains—though now well controlled—that love of fun and careless mischievousness that seems to be peculiar to the office boy of all nationalities. What one or what combination of any or all of these qualities Whimple found quite early in William still remains a mystery.

Coming back to William, it is to be observed that while he became Grand Master of Ceremonies in full charge of the office routine, he exercised his authority with discretion and tact. By the end of the first month, he had won Whimple to an announcement on the outer door to the effect that office hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.; and he had established his own luncheon hour as from 12 to 1. "It wouldn't do for you," he said gravely to Whimple, "to be takin' your lunch then, because you're a per-fession'l man. You gotter keep up with the procesh if you wanter make good."

Whimple laughed, but nodded his acceptance of the idea. "You're an inspiration, William," he said. "You've so much sunshine in your composition that you are shedding it nearly all the time, consciously or unconsciously, on the worthy and unworthy alike."

And he spoke truly; William exercised no discrimination in this regard. You could take it or leave it. Unless you had just lost some one near and dear to you, or otherwise tasted the dregs of sorrow or remorse, you couldn't ordinarily stay within a few yards of William and grieve. Not that he had not suffered, young as he was. Not that he could not and did not grieve with those he knew were in sorrow or distress; you are not to think that of William.

CHAPTER III

Whimple early discovered that William was not a model of integrity, diligence, and rectitude. Though an office boy he had his failings, and William's explanations of them were as curious, but quite as characteristic, as the lad himself.

"When it comes to business matters, Mister Whimple," he said with a dignity that almost upset the young lawyer's effort to appear gravely judicial, "it's me on the level. You can trust me to tell the truth and do the right thing. But when it comes to spinnin' yarns, nobody don't have to b'lieve 'em. Honest, I don't know when I'm telling the truth about 'em myself."

"That is a curious psychological problem, William."

"Gee! is it as bad as that? I hope it ain't fatal."

Whimple smiled. "No," he said, slowly, "and yet, my boy, there is only one way to build up a good reputation. Do you go to Sunday school?"

"Well—not reg'lar. Sunday's the busy time for me."

"Busy! Why?"

"Sure—I take the kiddies out if it's fine, and maybe we don't have the bully times. Say"—his eyes were shining now, and he stood a little closer to Whimple, who was sitting on the table—"there's Pete, he's nine and a holy terror, and Bessie, she's six, and Joey, he's about four, And Dolly—say, Mister Whimple, you'd orter see Dolly, she's got big brown eyes, and brown hair, and a kinder solemn little face. She——"

"Are you spinning yarns now, William?"

"It's between man and man now, Mister Whimple—this ain't no yarn. My Pa says he uster think no man could keep a buncher kids like us and be happy, and now he thinks no man could be happy without a bunch like us, and Ma says it's hard scrapin' sometimes, but she wouldn't be without one of us for a thousand feeter land on the main street, and that's going some."

"What does your father do, William?"

"Pa, he's an express-man, and a good one at that, Mister Whimple. He owns two horses and rigs, and I tell you he keeps agoing all day long, Saturdays too, an' he's a-buyin' the house we're in, an' it ain't no cinch of a job liftin' a mortgage. Many's the time I've heard him say he wished he could lift it as easy as he lifts some of the trunks he carts."

"And what are you going to be, William?"

And William was silent. He flushed a little, toyed with a button of his vest, and finally answered in a low tone—

"I know what I wanter be, and sometimes I think I know how to get there, and sometimes I don't, and I'd rather not tell it just now."

"I hope you'll succeed, William—if your aim is a lofty one."

"Well," drawled William, "it's some high, and Tommy Watson says I'm bughouse, but I tell him he's a bit that way himself."

"Tommy Watson, the auctioneer?"

"Sure—say, Mister Whimple, ain't he a pippin? My Pa says he can make people buy rocks and weep with joy on the bargains they're gettin' in diamon's."

That day Whimple called on Tommy Watson, famed as the peer of auctioneers. To those who counted among his friends and acquaintances, and they were as numerous as the wise "I-told-you-so's" on the day after an election or a prize fight, Tommy was always an inspiration and a delight. His long rambling store, with its wonderful stock of furniture, books, nick-nacks, pictures, all that goes to add zest to the life of the bargain-hunters and auction regulars, was a gathering-place for all classes. Tommy knew and was respected by the men whose names meant power and money; he was beloved by many a wage-earner for the help he gave in the all-important problems of home furnishing, and he was the idol of one William Adolphus Turnpike.

Whimple lost no time in preliminaries. "I've got an office boy, Tommy," he said, "and——"

"One William Adolphus Turnpike, to wit," Tommy broke in.

"The same; he's quite a character, Tommy."

"A good lad though," said the auctioneer, "and a friend of mine."

"He says you know what he wants to be, and that you think he's bughouse."

Tommy laughed. "He spends an hour here every morning," he said.

"What!"

"Turns up as regular as the clock at about fifteen minutes to eight, and stays until he has just time to get to the office on the stroke of nine."

There was a long pause, each man regarding the other thoughtfully. It was Tommy who relieved the situation.

"So far as I know," he said slowly, "he has confided in no one but myself and one other regarding his plans. He's only a boy; he may change his mind any day. But I don't think it. I never knew any one, man, woman, or child, so earnest and determined."

"You know how I'm situated, Tommy; mighty little yet but hope—and, thank God, I've never lost that. It's really a shame, Tommy, paying him the princely salary of two dollars per, but I need him. Tommy, if you think it best not to tell, don't."

Tommy understood. "It might help," he said, "and I can depend upon you to keep silence. Come along."

He led the way to the back of the store, where his bachelor apartments were situated—a bedroom and a library—a most curious library, for Tommy was an omnivorous reader and particularly given to romances.

In one corner of the room was a small bookcase with perhaps fifty books carefully arranged; a little desk and an arm-chair. "That's his corner," said Tommy abruptly; "look at the books."

Whimple looked over the titles rapidly, then more closely. "Plays," he murmured, "the lives of actors, more plays, The Comedian, Garrick, Nell Gwynn," then turning to Tommy and