He had not far to look. On the front of the building he saw in large letters the sign:

ENOCH PITKIN & CO.

In the door-way there was another sign, from which he learned that the firm occupied the second floor.

He went up-stairs, and opening a door, entered a spacious² apartment which looked like a hive of industry. There were numerous clerks, counters piled with goods, and every indication that a prosperous business was being carried on.

The nearest person was a young man of eighteen, or perhaps more, with an incipient³, straw-colored mustache, and a shock of hair of tow-color. This young man wore a variegated⁴ neck-tie, a stiff standing-collar, and a suit of clothes in the extreme of fashion.

Phil looked at him hesitatingly.

The young man observed the look, and asked condescendingly:

“What can I do for you, my son?”

Such an address from a person less than three years older than himself came near upsetting the gravity of Phil.

“Is Mr. Pitkin in?” he asked.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Can I see him.”

“I have no objection,” remarked the young man facetiously⁵.

“Where shall I find him?”

The youth indicated a small room partitioned off as a private office in the extreme end of the store.

“Thank you,” said Phil, and proceeded to find his way to the office in question.

Arrived at the door, which was partly open, he looked in.

In an arm-chair sat a small man, with an erect⁶ figure and an air of consequence. He was not over forty-five, but looked older, for his cheeks were already seamed and his look was querulous. Cheerful natures do not so soon show signs of age as their opposites.

“Mr. Pitkin?” said Phil interrogatively.

“Well?” said the small man, frowning

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