THE FINANCIER 
His father smiled. This was the most business-like 
attitude he had, as yet, seen his son manifest. He was 
so keen, so alert for a boy of thirteen. 
"Why, Frank," he said, going over to a drawer where 
some bills were, "are you going to become a financier 
already? You're sure you're not going to lose on this? 
You know what you're doing, do you?" 
"You let me have the money, father, will you?" he 
pleaded. " I'll show you in a little bit. Just let me have 
it." 
He was like a young hound on the scent of game. His 
father could not resist his appeal, it was so fascinating. 
"Why, certainly, Frank," he replied. " I'll trust 
you." And he counted out six five-dollar certificates of 
the Third National's own issue and two ones. "There 
you are." 
Frank ran out of the building with a briefly spoken 
thanks. He returned to the auction-room as fast as his 
legs would carry him. When he came in, sugar was being 
auctioned, but he paid no attention to that. He made 
his way to the auctioneer's clerk. 
" I want to pay for that soap," he suggested. 
"Now?" asked the boy. 
"Yes. Will you give me a receipt?" 
"Yep." 
"Do you deliver this?" 
"No. No delivery. You have to take it away in 
twenty-four hours." 
That difficulty did not trouble him. He had some 
change. 
"All right," he said, and pocketed his paper testimony 
of purchase. 
The auctioneer watched him as he went out. In half 
an hour he was back with a drayman—an idle levee- 
wharf hanger-on who was waiting for a job. 
Frank had bargained with him to deliver the soap for 
sixty cents. In still another half-hour he was before the 
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