with a smile: "I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest
in Wall Street."

A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.

"I'm very glad, sir," he said, with a smile. "Do you know, sir,
you look something like my own father--what I can remember of
him--that is, he was--" The lad checked himself, fearing he might
be discourteous. "That is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore
his cravats like you, too. I have his portrait in my room."

Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his
hand on his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost
impossible. "And now tell me your name?"

"My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle."

The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further
confidences were impossible. The banners had been replaced and
every one was reseated, talking or laughing. On one side raged a
discussion as to how far the decoration of a plain surface should
go--"Roughing it," some of them called it. At the end of the table
two men were wrangling as to whether the upper or the lower half
of a tall structure should have its vertical lines broken; and, if
so, by what. Further down high-keyed voices were crying out
against the abomination of the flat roof on the more costly
buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would wake up
to the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less
ugly--even if it did cost a little more. Still a third group were
in shouts of laughter over a story told by one of the staff who