The color left Felix Mortimer’s face.
“I refer,” continued the banker, “to his penmanship, which you must acknowledge is far superior to your own; and a good handwriting adds much to one’s value in an office of this sort. I see you are disappointed, and I knew you would be. Do not, however, feel discouraged, as it is possible I may do something for you yet. If Mr. Randolph should prove unsatisfactory in any respect, he will not be retained permanently. You may, therefore, if you choose, run in here again in a day or two.”
Young Mortimer was greatly disappointed and even deeply chagrined, for he had supposed himself more than capable of holding his own against this unsophisticated country lad. Had he not attempted to bully him while waiting for the banker and failed, thus arousing a spirit of rivalry and hostility between young Randolph and himself, he would of course have felt differently, but now an intense hatred was kindled within him, and with burning passion he determined upon revenge.
Felix Mortimer went direct from Richard Goldwin’s banking house to the Bowery, and from there he soon found his way to a side street, which contained many old buildings of unattractive appearance. The neighborhood was a disreputable one. Squalor was on every hand, and many individuals of unsavory reputations made this locality their headquarters. One of these was Christopher Gunwagner, a repulsive specimen of humanity, who had been in business here for several years as a “fence,” or receiver of stolen goods.
To this fence Felix directed his steps.
“Good morning, Mr. Gunwagner,” said young Mortimer, briskly.
The former eyed him sharply for a moment.
“What do you want now?” growled the fence by way of reply. “Why don’t you bring me something, as you ought to?”
Felix cut him short, and at once proceeded to business.
“I came,” said he, “to get you to help me and thereby help yourself. I’ve got a chance to get into a bank——”