Up-town toward the Jefferson Building he hurried, half-daring, yet half-fearing, to hope. Noting the number of the room on the framed directory placarded within, he left the elevator at the tenth floor, and hastening down the corridor, paused opposite the door. Externally the office was a modest one, with “H. O. Farrington, Agent” inscribed in plain black lettering on the glass. Entering, he found the interior to correspond. A tiny room, with a small enclosure at one end, within which sat Farrington himself, a man perhaps best described by saying that he perfectly typified that somewhat vague being whom most of us have in mind when we speak glibly of the “average man.” “Average” best described him in height, build, and appearance, the nondescript sort of person whom one meets on Monday, and passes in the street on Tuesday, wholly unconscious of ever having seen him before.
As Jack entered, he glanced up quickly. “Mr. Carleton?” he questioned, and as Jack nodded, motioned to a chair. “Just a minute,” he said, and bent over his writing again. Presently, as he stopped, and reached for a sheet of blotting paper, Jack ventured to speak. “I don’t know how much you know about this—” he began, but the other raised his hand. “All right,” he said briefly, and shoved a check and a receipt across the desk, “Sign, please.”
Mechanically Jack glanced at the check. It was for the amount required. Mechanically, too, he signed the receipt, and handed it back to Farrington. Half unable to realize his good fortune, he rose, the check in his hand. “I’m greatly obliged,” he said.
Farrington made no reply. Evidently words with him were precious things. Perforce Jack turned to go, and then, half-way to the door, turned.
“Mr. Farrington,” he said hesitatingly, “if things should go lower—”
Farrington did not look up. “They won’t,” he said tersely.
Again Jack hesitated. Then, finally, “But if they should—” he said again.
A little impatiently, Farrington raised his head. “We’ll see you through,” he said. “Good night.” And Jack, not disposed to quarrel further with fortune, closed the door behind him.
It was a quarter of ten on the morning following when he entered Turner and Driver’s office, advancing to meet the senior partner with the little strip of paper in his outstretched hand. Turner took it eagerly enough, and as he scanned the amount, he nodded, while a wrinkle or two seemed to vanish from his puckered and frowning brow. Then he looked up. “Well, you got it,” he said, and Carleton hastened to assent. “Oh, yes,” he returned lightly, “I got it all right. Why, didn’t you think I would?”
The broker shrugged his shoulders. “Hard telling anything these days,” he answered, “but I’ll tell you one thing, though; you’re mighty lucky to be able to put your hands on it so easy. There’ll be more than one poor devil this morning who would pretty near give his soul for a tenth part of what you’ve got here. It’s a bad time for customers, Jack, and I don’t mind telling you—” he lowered his voice confidentially—“that it’s a bad time for brokers, too. A little piece of paper like this—” he waved the check gently to and fro—“is a nice comforting sight for a man; between you and me, I wouldn’t mind seeing three or four mates to it. Yes, I’m glad to get it all right, on my account, and on yours, too.”