he spring of 185-, a New York correspondent of the
bank came on to Boston, and Mr. Bowdoin gave a dinner for him at the
house. The dinner was at three o'clock; but old lady Bowdoin wore her
best gown of tea-colored satin, and James Bowdoin and his wife were
there. After dinner, the three gentlemen sat discussing old madeira,
and old and new methods of banking, and the difference between Boston
and New York, which was already beginning to assume a metropolitan
preeminence.

"By the way, speaking of old-fashioned ways," said the New Yorker
suddenly, "that's a queer old clerk of yours,--Mr. McMurtagh, I mean."

"Looks as if he might have stepped out of one of Dickens's novels,
does he not?" said Mr. Bowdoin, always delighted to have Jamie's
peculiarities appreciatively mentioned.

"But how did you come to know him?" asked Mr. James.

"Why, I see him once a year or so. Don't you send him occasionally to
New York?"

"He used to go, some years ago," said Mr. Bowdoin.

"He buys his Spanish gold of us," added the New Yorker. "Queer fancy
you have of buying up doubloons. Gold is gold, though, in these
times."

"Spanish doubloons?" said Mr. James.

"We have a use for them at the bank," remarked the old gentleman
sharply. "Shall we join the ladies?"

"You have to pay a pretty premium for them," added the money-dealer,
as he stopped to wipe his lips. "Wonderful madeira, this."

Old Mr. Bowdoin took no squeaking toy to bed with him that night; but
at breakfast his worthy spouse vowed he must take another room if he
would be so wakeful. For once the old gentleman had no repartee, but
hurried down to the bank. Early as he was, he found his son James
there before him. And with all his soul he seized upon the chance to
lose his temper.

"Well, sir, and what are you spying about for? You're not a director
in the bank!"

Mr. James looked up, astonished.

"Got a headache, I suppose, from drinking with that New York tyke they
sent us yesterday!"

"Well, sir, when it comes to old madeira"--

"I earned it, I bought it, and I can drink it, too. And as for your
Wall Street whippersnappers that haven't pedigree enough to get a
taste for wine, and drink champagne, and don't know an honest man when
they see one--it's so seldom"--

"Seriously, what do you suppose he wanted with the gold?"

"I don't know, sir, and I don't care. But since you're spying round,
come in!" and Mr. Bowdoin led his son into the vault. "There, sir,
t