“How much money have you?”
“I have two hundred and ten dollars,” replied the lad with an uncertain smile. He had felt proud of the magnitude of his savings in his own room; in this office he felt a bit ashamed of their insignificance.
“Dear me,” said the millionaire speculator, very seriously, “that is a good deal of money. It’s a blame sight more’n I had, when I started in business. Got it with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll introduce you to my brother Wilson, who has charge of our customers. Come in, John.”
“John” came in. His other name was Mellen. He was a slim, quiet-looking man of about five-and-fifty. His enemies said that he had made $1,000,000 for every year he had lived and had kept it.
“Sit down, John,” said Colonel Treadwell, shaking hands with Mr. Mellen, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
At the door he shook hands with two more visitors—a tall, ruddy-faced, white-haired, and white-whiskered man, Mr. Milton Steers, after-dinner speaker and self-confessed wit; and, incidentally, president of a railroad system; also Mr. D. M. Ogden, who looked like an English clergyman and was the owner of the huge Ogden Buildings in Wall Street. They had come to discuss the advisability of a new deal in “Trolley.” They represented, they and their associates, more than $500,000,000. But Colonel Treadwell made them wait while he escorted his new acquaintance to his brother’s room.
“Wilse,” he said, “I’ve brought you a new customer, Mr. Carey.”
Wilson P. Treadwell smiled pleasantly. He was a tall, slender man with a serious look. The firm did not desire new accounts, for there was already more business than could be handled. They were the busiest and the best-known stock brokers in the United States. But the colonel’s friends were welcome, always.