Finding his book, hitherto resting on his lap, rather irksome there, the owner now places it edgewise on the settee, between himself and neighbor; in so doing, chancing to expose the lettering on the back—“Black Rapids Coal Company”—which the good merchant, scrupulously honorable, had much ado to avoid reading, so directly would it have fallen under his eye, had he not conscientiously averted it. On a sudden, as if just reminded of something, the stranger starts up, and moves away, in his haste leaving his book; which the merchant observing, without delay takes it up, and, hurrying after, civilly returns it; in which act he could not avoid catching sight by an involuntary glance of part of the lettering.
“Thank you, thank you, my good sir,” said the other, receiving the volume, and was resuming his retreat, when the merchant spoke: “Excuse me, but are you not in some way connected with the—the Coal Company I have heard of?”
“There is more than one Coal Company that may be heard of, my good sir,” smiled the other, pausing with an expression of painful impatience, disinterestedly mastered.
“But you are connected with one in particular.—The ‘Black Rapids,’ are you not?”
“How did you find that out?”
“Well, sir, I have heard rather tempting information of your Company.”
“Who is your informant, pray,” somewhat coldly.
“A—a person by the name of Ringman.”
“Don’t know him. But, doubtless, there are plenty who know our Company, whom our Company does not know; in the same way that one may know an individual, yet be unknown to him.—Known this Ringman long? Old friend, I suppose.—But pardon, I must leave you.”
“Stay, sir, that—that stock.”