Street, inquired once more, located the street he was looking for, and,
consulting a card which he took from a big stained leather pocket-book,
walked on, peering at the numbers of the buildings he passed.

The offices of Sylvester, Kuhn, and Graves, were on the sixteenth floor
of a new and gorgeously appointed sky-scraper. When Captain Elisha
entered the firm's reception room, he was accosted by a wide-awake and
extremely self-possessed office boy.

"Who'd you want to see?" asked the boy, briskly.

The captain removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief.

"Hold on a jiffy, Sonny," he panted. "Just give me a minute to sort of
get myself together, as you might say. I rode up in one of those express
elevators of yours, and I kind of feel as if my boots had got tangled up
with my necktie. When that elevator feller cast off from the cellar, I
begun to shut up like a spyglass. Whew! Say, Son, is Mr. Graves in?"

"No," replied the boy, grinning.

"Hum! Still in the sick bay, is he--hey?"

"He's to home. Got a cold."

"Yup. It's too bad. Mr.--er--Sylvester, is he in?"

"Naw, he ain't. And Mr. Kuhn's busy. Won't one of the clerks do? What do
you want to see the firm about?"