e's a buddin' financier, Peyton is; one of these
little-red-notebook heroes, who wear John D. mottoes pasted in their
hats and can tell you just how Carnegie or Armour or Shonts or any of
them sainted souls laid up their first ten thousand.

He's got all that thrift dope down fine, Peyton has. Why, he don't lick
a postage stamp of his own but it gets entered in the little old
expense account along with the extra doughnut he plunged on at the
dairy lunch. He knows that's the way to win out for he's read it in
magazine articles and I'll bet every time he passes the Sub-Treasury he
lifts his lid reverent.

I expect it's something Peyton was born to, for his old man was a bank
cashier and his two older brothers already have their names up on window
grills, he tells me, while an uncle of his is vice-president of an
insurance company. So it's no wonder Peyton is a reg'lar coupon hound.
His idea of light readin' is to sit down with "Talks to Investors" on
one knee and the market report on the other. Give him a forenoon off and
he'd spend it down at the Clearing House watchin' 'em strike the daily
balance. Uh-huh. The only way he can write U. S. is in a monogram--like
this--$$

Not such a bad-lookin' chap though; tall, slim and dark, with a long
straight nose and a well-developed chin. Course he's got kind of a
bilious indoor complexion, and them thick glasses don't add to his
beauty. You can imagine too, that his temperament ain't exactly
frivolous. Hardly! Yet he thinks he's a great jollier when he wants to
be. Also he likes to have me kid him about bein' such a finicky dresser,
for while he never splurges on anything sporty, he's always neat and
well dressed.

"Who's the little queen that all this is done for?" I asks him once.

"When I have picked her out I'll let you know, Torchy," says he,
blinkin' foxy.

Later on though he tells me all about it confidential. He admits likin'
well enough to run around with nice girls when it can be done without
danger of being worked for orchestra seats or taxi fares. But there was
no sense gettin' in deep with any particular one until a feller was sure
of a five figure income, at least.

"Huh!" says I. "Then you got time enough to train one up from the
cradle."

"Oh, I don't know," says he. "Anyway, I shall wait until I find one with
tastes as simple as my own."

"You may," says I, "and then again--Well, I've seen wiser guys than you
rushed off their feet by fluffy young part