Somehow this building interested Westerfelt more than any of the
others. He told himself it was because he intended to get his meals
there. Finally he decided, as he was not to dine that day with the
Bradleys, that he ought to go over at once and speak to the landlady
about his board. As he arranged his cravat before the little
walnut-framed mirror, which the stable-boys in placing his furniture
had hung on the wall, together with a hairbrush and a comb tied to
strings, he wondered, with no little pleasurable excitement, if Harriet
Floyd had anything to do with the management of the house, and if he
would be apt to meet her that morning.

Descending to the office on his way out, he found a young man writing
at a desk. It was William Washburn, the book-keeper for the former
owners of the livery-stable, whom Westerfelt had retained on Bradley's
recommendation. Washburn was copying accounts from a ledger on to
sheets of paper.

"How are they running?" asked Westerfelt, looking over the young man's
shoulder.

"Lots of 'em hain't wuth the paper they are on," replied Washburn.
"The old firm knowed everybody in creation, an' never could refuse a
soul. When you bought the accounts you didn't buy gold dollars."

"I know that, but Bradley said he thought I might collect a good many
of them."

"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."

"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."