"Would I?" gasped the junior clerk.
"And, by the way, you are not married, are you?"
"No," said the young man, "I'm not, but——"
"That's good," continued the cashier. "That's very fortunate, for Mr. Clatfield prefers that his confidential secretaries should be single men. In fact, he makes that an absolute condition."
"The deuce he does!" replied the junior clerk. "Then he can give the place to anyone but me. There comes my yellow car. Good-night, and much obliged."
"Wattles," cried Mr. Clatfield, "have you gone crazy? I do not want a private secretary on any terms!"
"No," answered Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."
The lighted trolley cars went shooting past. The wind had risen till the big umbrella of the transfer agent threatened to go sailing skyward like a yellow parachute. Already at the corners the ground was getting white. A muffled clock somewhere struck seven.
"Wattles," said Mr. Clatfield, "come home and dine with me. I'd like to talk about our walk."
"I can't to-night," replied the cashier. "I'm going to take dinner with a man named Briggs."