blood, and before leaving his home in the morning to go to his office
replaces his heart with a paving-stone. But why go on? Suffice it
to say that the trade is eminently respectable and rich, in some
instances possessed of enormous wealth, and this is the trade in
which I began my career.

My office life for the first two years was routine and devoid of
excitement, except for occasional strenuous experiences the result
of Mr. Derham's brusqueness and quickness to resent anything that
he deemed an attempt to take advantage of, or put a slight upon him.
He was the sort of man that makes a steadfast friend or a bitter
enemy, with no room for anything in between.

"Walter, take this contract to Winter and bring me his acceptance,"
said Mr. Derham on one occasion, when, having made what in those
days was considered a large sale, he was feeling particularly
good-natured over it.

"Yes, sir," I replied, and was off at once, little knowing the
reception awaiting me in the Beaver Street office of Rudolph C.
Winter.

On entering the office I approached Mr. Winter's desk and handed
him the contract. He glanced at it, and then all the nervous
irritability for which that individual was noted came to the surface
at once. Springing up from his desk, upsetting the chair in his
haste and rushing toward me, he shouted:

"Here! take this back to Mr. Derham; tell him I won't have it!
I didn't sell it; get out!" And pushing me across the office, he