you a cent." "Well, may be I shall, sometime," said Bartley.
"Good afternoon, Colonel."

"Good afternoon. Or--hold on! My horse down there yet,
William?" he called to the young man in the counting-room
who had taken his letter at the beginning of the interview.
"Oh! All right!" he added, in response to something
the young man said.

"Can't I set you down somewhere, Mr. Hubbard? I've got
my horse at the door, and I can drop you on my way home.
I'm going to take Mis' Lapham to look at a house I'm driving
piles for, down on the New Land."

"Don't care if I do," said Bartley.

Lapham put on a straw hat, gathered up some papers lying
on his desk, pulled down its rolling cover, turned the
key in it, and gave the papers to an extremely handsome
young woman at one of the desks in the outer office.
She was stylishly dressed, as Bartley saw, and her smooth,
yellow hair was sculpturesquely waved over a low,
white forehead. "Here," said Lapham, with the same
prompt gruff kindness that he had used in addressing
the young man, "I want you should put these in shape,
and give me a type-writer copy to-morrow."

"What an uncommonly pretty girl!" said Bartley, as they
descended the rough stairway and found their way out to
the street, past the dangling rope of a block and tackle