THE two friends had been in New York five days, and in the continual round of theatres, and in sight-seeing, with occasional call at some establishment with which Whipple had dealings, they spent the time very pleasantly. The pain caused by Fred’s secret visit to his old home was, in a measure, assuaged¹ by his constant effort to be cheerful for the sake of his benefactor’s enjoyment². He felt that he was succeeding, and the realization⁴ of the fact buoyed⁵ him up to further activity in self-obliteration. On occasion, Whipple acted like a college boy off on a lark⁶. He passed funny criticisms on the persons they saw on the streets and in the cars, and at the table of the café where they got their meals he purposely blundered over the French words on the menu, to the great mystification of the polite waiter, who found it impossible to reconcile actual ignorance with the costly⁷ clothing Whipple wore and his extravagant⁸ tips and liberal orders.

On the sixth morning of their stay in the metropolis⁹ they went down to pay a promised visit to Lewis Marston, the importer of teas and coffees from whom Whipple had received many a shipment and had met once or twice in New Orleans.

“So this is the Mr. Spencer you’ve written me about so often?” Marston smiled cordially as he was introduced to Fred, and begged them to take seats in the spacious¹⁰ office of which he was the only occupant. “Young man, as we used to say in the South, your ears ought to burn, for your boss has written me lots of good things about you. I remember he wrote last winter that his business was growing out of all bounds, owing to the fresh blood and modern ideas you had put into it.”

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