"Is this man's name Dreyfus—or—or what is it?"
"Let me think," returned the president, returning once more to the Commerce; "Dreyfus?—no—not Dreyfus—yes—no. Paying teller—hum—it's curious I can't recall—it commences with an F—FIELDS—yes, Fields! that's his name—Fields, to be sure!"
The questioner at once wrote down the word on the paper.
"This is the second time that he has applied for this favor, is it not?" formally inquired another of the thirteen, in the tone that a judge uses when he asks the clerk, "Has he not been before me on a former occasion?"
"Yes," replied the president, "this is a renewal of an effort made six months ago."
There was a general movement. Several chairs rolled back, and their occupants exchanged querulous glances.
"Suppose we hear the letter read," suggested a fair soul. "Perhaps"—a septuagenarian, with snowy hair and a thin body, clad in the clerical guise of the old school, and who had made a fortune by inventing a hat-block, arose hastily to his feet, and said:
"I cannot stay to listen to a dun!"
A chorus from the majority echoed the exclamation. All but four staggered to their feet, and tottered off in various directions; some to pretend to look out at the window, and some to the wardrobes, where was deposited their outer clothing.
"Clarks," stammered the feeble hatter, feeling vainly for the arm-holes in his great-coat—"clarks presume on their value. Turn 'em out, say I. Give 'em a chance to rotate. You've got my opinion, Mr. President. Refuse what's-his-name, Fields. Tell him he's happy and well off now, without knowing it. Where can be the sleeves to—to this"--his voice expired in his perplexity.