"Mark Mason: Please call at my office as soon as convenient.

 

"D. Gilbert."

 

"This letter is from Maud Gilbert's father," said Mark, addressing his mother. "I wonder what he wants."

 

"Nothing disagreeable, I am sure. Of course you will go."

 

"I will call to-morrow morning."

 

Mr. Gilbert was a commission merchant, with an office in the lower part of the city, west of Broadway. Mark obtained leave of absence for an hour agreeing to pay the price usually charged to customers.

 

He had seen Mr. Gilbert, a stout¹, portly man of fifty, during his call at the house in Forty-Fifth Street. Therefore when he was admitted to Mr. Gilbert's office, he addressed him not as a stranger but as an old acquaintance.

 

"I received your note, Mr. Gilbert, and have called according to your request."

 

"That is right, Mark. Sit down till I have finished looking over my letters. You will find the morning Herald² on the table near you."

 

In ten minutes the merchant had finished with his letters, and whirled round in his chair.

 

"I believe you are a telegraph boy," he said.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"What pay do you receive?"

 

"I don't average over six dollars a week."

 

"How old are you?"

 

"Sixteen."

 

"My daughter thinks you are unusually bright and intelligent."

 

"I am very much obliged to Miss Maud for her good opinion," said Mark, his face flushing with gratification.

 

"How can you get along on six dollars a week? You have a mother partially³ dependent upon you, I believe."

 

"I have lately had a present of a thousand dollars from Mr. Luther Rockwell, the banker. I was in his office when a dynamite⁴ crank threatened to blow us all up."

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