“I presume you sell as a rule to stores and business offices.”
“Yes; I have a regular line of customers who buy all of their stamps off me—customers that I worked up myself.”
“And they prefer buying of you to going to the post office for their supply?”
“Certainly; for I give them just as good stamps, and by buying of me they save themselves the trouble of going to the post office for them.”
Herbert Randolph was waiting for his money, and overheard this conversation between the cashier and the stamp broker. He made no effort to hear it, for it did not relate to him. They spoke so loud, however, that he caught every word distinctly, and before they had finished talking the idea flashed across his mind that he would try his hand at that business. Mr. Woodman, as good fortune willed it for young Randolph, could take only a portion of the stamps the cashier wished to dispose of. When the broker had completed his purchase and gone, Herbert stepped up to the cashier for the money due him for working on the hoist. Mr. Smith handed it to him cheerfully, with a pleasant remark, which gave young Randolph an opportunity to talk with him about the stamp brokerage idea that had set his brain on fire.
“How much capital have you?” asked the cashier, with growing interest.
“With the money you just paid me I have three dollars and seventy five cents,” answered Herbert, his face coloring.
The cashier smiled.
“And you think you could become a broker on that capital?” said he, with mingled surprise and amusement.
“I think I could try it on that capital if you would sell me the stamps,” replied Herbert, with such intelligent assurance that he interested the cashier.