"Take me 'ome," mumbled Haldane.

"Where's yer home?"

"Mrs. Haldane's," answered the youth, thinking himself in his native
town.

"By me sowl, if it isn't Boss Arnot's new clerk. Sure's me name is Pat
M'Cabe 'tis Misther Haldane. I say, are ye sick?"

"Take me 'ome."

"Faix, I see," winking at two or three of his cronies who had gathered
at the open door; "it's a disase I'm taken wid meself at odd spells,
though I takes moighty good care to kape out o' the way of ould man
Arnot when I'm so afflicted. He has a quare way o' thinkin' that ivery
man about him can go as rigaler as if made in a mash-shine shop, bad
luck till 'im."

Perhaps all in Mr. Arnot's employ would have echoed this sentiment,
could the ill luck have blighted him without reaching them. In working
his employes as he did his machinery, Mr. Arnot forgot that the latter
was often oiled, but that he entirely neglected to lubricate the wills
of the former with occasional expressions of kindness and interest in
their welfare. Thus it came to pass that even down to poor Pat M'Cabe,
man of all work around the office building, all felt that their employer
was a hard, driving taskmaster, who ever looked beyond them and their
interests to what they accomplished for him. The spirit of the master
infused itself among the men, and the tendency of each one to look out
for himself without regard to others was increased. If Pat had served a