"David St. Clair."
"David Sinclair," repeated the old gentleman.
"Mercedes Silva," said Mr. James musingly.
"McMurtagh, if you please," said Jamie.
"Jamie," said old Mr. Bowdoin, "our business is going away. The steamers will ruin it. For a long time there has not been enough to occupy a man of your talents. And the old bookkeeper at the bank—the Old Colony Bank—has got to resign. I've already asked the place for you. The salary is—more than we here can afford to pay you. In fact, we may close the counting-room."
Jamie rubbed his nose and shifted his feet. "Ta business is a goot business, and t' firm is a fine old firm." It was evident he was in the throes of unexpressed affection. In all his life he had never learned to express it. "Ye'll na be closing the old counting-room?"
"I may come down here every day or so, just to keep my trusts up. I'll use it for a writing-room; it's near the bank"—
"An' I'll come down an' keep the books for you, sir," said Jamie; and the "sir" from his lips was like a caress from another man.