'It's a business job I'm after,' said Dick to himself, 'and I'll carry it out in a business style. I don't want father to make a joke of it; it's no joke to poor old Chippy—anybody can see that with half an eye.'
So Dick dived into his pocket and fetched out a dozen things before he lighted on what he wanted—a small leathern case with a dozen cards in it. In the centre of the card appeared 'Dick Elliott,' neatly printed; while in the corner, in quaint Old English lettering, was his address, 'The Croft, Birchfields,' being the names of the house and suburb in which he lived. The card was his own achievement, produced on his own model printing-press, and he was rather proud of it.
He entered the inquiry office on the ground-floor, and the clerk in charge came forward with a smile.
'I say, Bailey,' said Dick, 'you might take this up to my father, will you?'
The clerk took the card, looked at it, and then at Dick, and went without a word; but his smile was now a grin. In a short time he came back, and murmured, 'This way, please,' and Dick followed, very serious and thoughtful, and in no wise responding to Bailey's unending grin.
Dick was shown into the room of the senior partner, who was looking at his visitor's card, and now glanced up with a humorous twirl of his eye.
'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said—'Mr. Dick Elliott, I think'—glancing at the card again. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elliott. Won't you sit down? And now what can I do for you?'
'I have called upon you, sir,' said Dick, 'in the hopes of enlisting your sympathy on behalf of a worthy object and a noble cause.'
Dick had collared this opening from the heading of a subscription-list, and he thought it sounded stunning. He felt sure it would impress the senior partner. It did: that gentleman's emotion was deep; he only kept it within bounds by biting his lips hard.
'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said, 'you are, I suppose, in quest of a donation?'