“Oh, by the way, Tom,” said the other clerk, in a low tone of voice, “my sister’s engaged to Billy Peters. I don’t know that she wants to have it given away, that is, names, and everything, but you might kind o’ hint at it. It would please the old folks, I think—you know father’s taken the Chronicle for the last twenty years.”
“I know” said Tom, producing an old envelope from a side pocket and making some dashes on it with a pencil—“the regulation gag: ‘It is rumored that a rising young hat-dealer will shortly lead to the altar one of the bright, particular social stars of Brewery street ’ eh? Something like that?”
“Yes, that’s it. You know how to fix it so that everybody’ll know who is meant. Be around at Menzel’s to-night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll look in. The beer’s been fearfully flat there, though, this last carload. So long, boys!”—and Tom moved down the street while the clerks re-entered the store.
Seth followed him eagerly, and touched him on the shoulder, saying:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I heard you mention the Chronicle just now. I would be much obliged if you could tell me where the office is.”
The young man turned, looked Seth over and said, affably enough:
“Certainly. But you’ll find it shut up. The book-keeper’s gone home.” Then he added, as by a happy afterthought: “If you want to pay a weekly subscription, though, I can take it, just as well as not.”
“No,” answered Seth, “I’ve come to work on the Chronicle.”
“Oh—printer? I guess some of the fellows are there still, throwing in their cases. If you like, I’ll show you.”