pression implied a wish to draw him the closer--and said quite
simply: "I don't do anything that is of any use, sir. Garry says that I
might as well work in a faro bank."

Peter leaned forward. For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as
he scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his
well-knit, well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his
scalp, cleanly modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth--especially
the mobile lips which seemed quivering from some suppressed emotion--all
telling of a boy delicately nurtured.

"And do you really work in a faro bank?" Peter's knowledge of human
nature had failed him for once.

"Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry's jokes. I'm clerk in a stock
broker's office on Wall Street. Arthur Breen & Company. My uncle is head
of the firm."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" answered Peter in a relieved tone.

"And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?" asked the young
man. "You seem so different from the others."

"Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win," replied Peter, at
which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being kindled between them.

Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added with
a smile: "I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest in Wall
Street."

A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.

"I'm very glad, sir," he said, with a smile. "Do you know, sir, you look
something like my own father--what I can remember of him--that is, he
was--" The lad checked himself, fearing he might be discourteous. "That
is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore his cravats like you, too. I
have his portrait in my room."

Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his hand on
his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost impossible. "And
now tell me your name?"

"My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle."

The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further
confidences were impossible. The banners had been replaced and every one
was reseated, talking or laughing. On one side raged a discussion as to
how far the decoration of a plain surface should go--"Roughing it," some
of them called it. At the end of the table two men were wrangling as to
whether the upper or the lower half of a tall structure should have
its vertical lines broken; and, if so, by what. Further down high-keyed
voices were crying out against the abomination of the flat roof