yself in New York. Now, all those big wagons that
bring the goods in and the little wagons that take them out--there is an
out-of-door aspect to the delivery service. Is that an important branch
to learn?"

"Very--getting the goods to the customer--very!"

"Then I'll start with that and sort of a roving commission to look over
the other departments."

"Good! We will consider it settled. And, Jack, every man's labor that you
can save and retain efficiency--that is the trick! Organization and
ideas, that's what makes the employer and so makes success. Why, Jack, if
you could cut down the working costs in the delivery department or
improve the service at the present cost, why--" John Wingfield, Sr.
rubbed the palms of his hands together delightedly.

Everything was going finely--so far. He added that proviso of _so far_
instinctively.

"Besides, Jack," he went on, changing to another subject that was equally
vital to his ego, "this name of Wingfield is something to work for. I was
the son of a poor New England clergyman, but there is family back of it;
good blood, good blood! I was not the first John Wingfield and you shall
not be the last!"

He rose from the table, bidding the servant to bring the coffee to the
drawing-room. With the same light, quick step that he ascended the
flights in the store, he led the way downstairs, his face alive with the
dramatic anticipation that it had worn when he took Jack out of the
office to look down from the balcony of the court.

"Ah, we have something besides the store, Jack!" he was saying, in the
very exultation of the pride of possession, as he went to the opposite
side of the mantel from the mother's portrait and turned on the reflector
over a picture.

Jack saw a buccaneer under the brush of the gold and the shadows of
Spain; a robust, ready figure on fighting edge, who seemed to say, "After
you, sir; and, then, pardon me, but it's your finish, sir!"

"It's a Velasquez!" Jack exclaimed.

"And you knew that at a glance!" said his father.

"Why, yes!"

"Not many Velasquezes in America," said the father, thinking,
incidentally, that his son would not have to pay the dealers a heavy toll
for an art education, while he revelled in a surprise that he was
evidently holding back.

"Or many better Velasquezes than this, anywhere," added Jack. "What
mastery! What a gift from heaven that was vouchsafed to a human being to
paint like that!"

He was in a spell, held no less