My uncle is head of the firm."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" answered Peter in a relieved tone.

"And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?" asked the young man. "You seem so different from the others."

"Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win," replied Peter, at which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being kindled between them.

Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added with a smile: "I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest in Wall Street."

A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.

"I'm very glad, sir," he said, with a smile. "Do you know, sir, you look something like my own father—what I can remember of him—that is, he was—" The lad checked himself, fearing he might be discourteous. "That is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore his cravats like you, too. I have his portrait in my room."

Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his hand on his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost impossible. "And now tell me your name?"

"My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle."

The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further confidences were impossible. The banners had been replaced and every one was reseated, talking or laughing. On one side raged a discussion as to how far the decoration of a plain surface should go—"Roughing it," some of them called it. At the end of the table two men were wrangling as to whether the upper or the lower half of a tall structure should have its vertical lines broken; and, if so, by what. Further down high-keyed voices were crying out against the abomination of the flat roof on the more costly buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would wake up to the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less ugly—even if it did cost a little more. Still a third group were in shouts of laughter over a story told by one of the staff who had just returned from an inspection trip west.

Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a moment a couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to each other in mock ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from the borrowed flagons, then glanced toward his friend Minott, just then the centre of a cyclone that was stirring the group midway the table.

"Come over here, Garry," he called, half rising to his feet to attract his friend's attention.

Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the story had been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the table.

"Garry," he whispered, "I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson—the very dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life. Sits right next to me."

"What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high collar?" muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. "We've been wondering where Mr. Morris dug him up."

"Hush," said Breen—"he'll hear you."

"All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad when you get close to him."

"Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott."

Peter rose to his feet. "I DO know him," he said, holding out his hand cordially. "I've been knowing him all the evening. He's made most of the fun at his end of the table. You seem to have flaunted your Corn Exchange banner on the smallest provocation, Mr. Minott," and Peter's fingers gripped those of the young man.

"That's because I've been in charge of the inside work. Great dinner, isn't it, Mr. Grayson. But it's Britton who has made the dinner. He's more fun than a Harlem goat with a hoopskirt. See him—that's Brit with a red head and blue neck-tie. He's been all winter in Wisconsin looking after some iron work and has come back jam full of stories." The dignity of Peter's personality had evidently not impressed the young man, judging from the careless tone with which he addressed him. "And how are you getting on, Jack—glad you came, ar'n't you?" As he spoke he laid his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Didn't I tell you it would be a corker? Out of sight, isn't it? Everything is out of sight around our office." This last remark was directed to Peter in the same casual way.

"I should say that every stopper was certainly out," answered Peter in graver tones. He detested slang and would never understand it. Then again the bearing and air of Jack's friend jarred on him. "You know, of course, the old couplet—'When the wine flows the—'"

"No, I don't know it," interrupted Minott with an impatient glance. "I'm not much on poetry—but you can bet your bottom dollar it's flowing all right." Then seeing the shade of disappointment on Breen's face at the flippant way in which he had returned Peter's courtesies, but without understanding the cause, he added, tightening his arm around his friend's neck, "Brace up, Jack, old man, and let yourself go. That's what I'm always telling Jack, Mr. Grayson. He's got to cut loose from a lot of old-fashioned notions that he brought from home if he wants to get anywhere around here. I had to."

"What do you want him to give up, Mr. Minott?" Peter had put on his glasses now, and was inspecting Garry at closer range.

"Oh, I don't know—just get into the swing of things and let her go."

"That is no trouble for you to do," rejoined Jack, looking into his friend's face. "You're doing something that's worth while."

"Well, aren't you doing something that's worth while? Why you'll be a millionaire if you keep on. First thing you know the lightning will strike you just as it did your uncle."

Morris leaned forward at the moment and called Minott by name. Instantly the young man's manner changed to one of respectful attention as he stepped to his Chief's side.

"Yes, Mr. Morris."

"You tell the men up your way to get ready to come to order, or we won't get through in time—it's getting late."

"All right, sir, I'll take care of 'em. Just as soon as you begin to speak you won't hear a sound."

As Minott moved from Morris's seat another and louder shout arose from the other end of the table:

"Garry, Garry, hurry up!" came the cry. It was evident the young man was very popular.

Peter dropped his glasses from his nose, and turning toward Morris said in a low voice:

"That's a very breezy young man, Holker, the one who has just left us. Got something in him, has he, besides noise?"

"Yes, considerable. Wants toning down once in a while, but there's no question of his ability or of his loyalty. He never shirks a duty and never forgets a kindness. Queer combination when you think of it, Peter. What he will make of himself is another matter."

Peter drew his body back and sent his thoughts out on an investigating tour. He was wondering what effect the influence of a young man like Minott would have on a young man like Breen.

The waiters at this point brought in huge trays holding bowls of tobacco and long white clay pipes, followed by even larger trays bearing coffee in little cups. Morris waited a moment and then rapped for order. Instantly a hush fell upon the noisy room; plates and glasses were pushed back so as to give the men elbow room; pipes were hurriedly lighted, and each guest turned his chair so as to face the Chief, who was now on his feet.

As he stood erect, one hand behind his back, the other stretched toward the table in his appeal for silence, I thought for the hundredth time how kind his fifty years had been to him; how tightly knit his figure; how well his clothes became him. A handsome, well-groomed man at all times and in any costume—but never so handsome or so well groomed as in evening dress. Everything in his make-up helped: the broad, square shoulders, arms held close to his side; flat waist; incurving back and narrow hips. His well-modelled, aristocratic head, too, seemed to gain increased distinction when it rose clear from a white shirt-front which served as a kind of marble pedestal for his sculptured head. There was,