Presently the inner doors of the banking house were thrown open, and a gentleman of perhaps a little more than middle age stepped lightly into the corridor, where the boys awaited his arrival. He had a kindly face, and a sharp but pleasant blue eye.
All seemed to know intuitively that he was Richard Goldwin, the banker, and consequently each one made a dashing, but somewhat comical effort to appear to good advantage.
“Good morning, boys,” said the banker, pleasantly, “I am glad to see so many of you here, and I wish I was able to give each one of you a position. I see, however, that many of you are too young for my purpose; therefore it would be useless to waste your time and mine by further examination.”
In a little time the contest had narrowed down to but two, and they were Herbert Randolph, and the boy who had so ineffectually attempted to drive him away.
“What is your name?” asked the banker of the city lad.
“My name is Felix Mortimer.”
“Felix Mortimer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mortimer, Mortimer,” repeated Mr. Goldwin. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Do you live in New York?”