e business were placed, but he was
no longer dejected or spiritless--nay, he felt every faculty enhanced;
never had he written so easily; never had his style been so' clear, or
his calculations so rapidly made. He remarked that Mr. Schroeter moved
with a quicker step, and looked round with a brighter glance than usual.
Never had Anton so honored him before; he seemed, as it were,
transfigured in his eyes. In wild delight, our hero said to himself,
"This is poetry--the poetry of business; we can only experience this
thrilling sense of power and energy in working our way against the
stream. When people say that these times are wanting in inspiration, and
our calling wanting most of all, they talk nonsense. That man is at this
very moment staking all he has at a single cast--all that he holds
dearest, the result of a long life, his pride, his honor, his happiness;
and there he sits coolly at his desk, writes letters about logwood, and
examines samples of clover-seed--nay, I believe that he actually laughs
within himself." So mused Anton while locking up his desk and preparing
to join his colleagues. He found them discussing, over a cup of tea, the
news of the day, and its probable effect upon business, with a pleasant
sort of shudder. All agreed that the firm must indeed suffer loss, but
that they were the men to retrieve it sooner than ever was done before.
Various views were then propounded, till at length Mr. Jordan pronounced
that it was impossible to know beforehand what turn things would take,
which profound opinion was generally adopted, and the conference broke
up. Through the thin wall of his room Anton heard his neighbor Baumann
put up a fervent prayer for the principal and the business, and he
himself worked off his excitement by walking up and down till his lamp
burned low.

It was already late when a servant noiselessly entered, and announced
that Mr. Schroeter wished to speak to him. Anton followed in all haste,
and found the merchant standing before a newly-packed trunk, with his
portfolio on the table, together with that unmistakable symptom of a
long journey, his great English cigar-case of buffalo hide. It contained
a hundred cigars, and had long excited the admiration of Mr. Specht.
Indeed, the whole counting-house viewed it as a sort of banner never
displayed but on remarkable occasions. Sabine stood at the open drawers
of the writing-table, busily and silently collecting whatever the
traveler might wan