"I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he?"

"Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what you want."

"No--it is a matter of business--important business." The boy eyed the
napless and dripping hat, the gloveless hands, and the rusty neckcloth of
the speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers through a profusion of
light curls "Mr. Morton don't attend much to business himself now; but
that's he. Any cravats, sir?"

The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chatting
with the banker of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of beaver
gloves), sat still--after due apology for sitting--Mr. Roger Morton.

The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced grimly at the lean
apparition that shaded the spruce banker, and said,--

"Do you want me, friend?"

"Yes, sir, if you please;" and the man took off his shabby hat, and bowed
low.

"Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope?"

"No, sir! Your nephews--"

The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the newcomer. The
linendraper started back.