THE FINANCIER 
He was sitting beside his battered flat-top desk look- 
ing out into the rout of Second Street through the open 
window, which, when closed, was composed of many 
small six-by-six window-panes. The rear of the store— 
indeed, all but the first thirty feet—was quite shadowy 
and cool because of the lack of side windows. Little of 
the stock of the company was kept here, because most of 
the transfers were made from cars in Market Street, and 
from boats at the water-front or on the Schuylkill 
"Yes," said George, a much leaner and slightly taller 
man with dark, blurry, reflective eyes and a thin, largely 
vanished growth of black, or brownish-black, hair, which 
contrasted strangely with the egg-shaped whiteness of 
his bald head. George was milder, less vigorous, less 
sanguine than his brother. He was more sicklied o'er 
with the pale cast of thought, and given to pulling a very 
neat, small, black mustache. " Yes, I like him. He's 
a nice young man. It's a wonder his father don't take 
him in his bank up there." 
" Well, he may not be able to," said his brother. " He's 
only the cashier there." 
"That's right." 
" We'll give that fellow a trial. I bet anything he makes 
good. He's a likely-looking youth." 
"This fellow we have is nothing," said George, gloomily. 
"When I ask him to look up a credit it takes him a month 
to find it. He won't do. He's always talking about an 
uncle that runs a dry-goods store in New York, Harry 
tells me." 
Harry was another clerk and general factotum, and 
George reported this as though it were in some way a 
notable offense. 
" Well, let him go and work for his uncle," observed 
Henry, sterterously. This warm June weather made 
him breathe heavily. 
He got up and walked out into the main entrance look- 
ing into Second Street. The cool, cobble pavements, 
45