In the private office of a first-class store sat two individuals, each thoroughly absorbed in his present employment, but with very different feelings for the work. One—it was the head of the establishment, the great Mr. Granite, the millionaire merchant—was simply amusing himself, as was his usual custom at least once a day, figuring up, by rough calculation, the probable amount of his worldly possessions, they having arrived at that point when the fructifying power of wealth made hourly addition to the grand total; while the other, his old and confidential clerk, Sterling, bent assiduously over a great ledger, mechanically adding up its long columns, which constant use had enabled him to do without the possibility of mistake. With a profound sigh of relief, he laid down his pen, and rubbing his cramped fingers, quietly remarked:
"Accounts made up, sir."
"Ah, very good, Sterling," replied the stately principal, with a smile, for his arithmetical amusement was very satisfactory, "how do we stand?"
"Balance in our favor, two hundred and fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars, and twenty-three cents," slowly responded the old clerk, reading from his abstract.
"You're certain that is correct, Mr. Sterling?" inquired the merchant-prince, in a clear, loud voice, which indicated that the old, time-worn machine was wearing out. He was so deaf that it was only by using his hand as a conductor of the sound, that he could hear sufficiently to carry on a conversation.
"Correct to a cypher, sir," he replied. "I have been up and down the columns a dozen times."
"Good."
"Did you speak, sir?"
"No."
"Ah! my poor old ears," the old clerk whispered, half aside. "Five and forty years in this quiet office has put them to sleep. They'll never wake up again, never, never."