“Tom Temple! bring him in at once.”
“You’re to go in,” said the clerk, coming out and calling Tom.
“I told you so,” said Tom quietly.
“I wonder what business he has anyhow,” thought the clerk, “or who he is. He’s an impudent chap.”
Entering the counting-room, Tom found himself in the presence of a stout, dignified-looking man of about forty-five years of age.
“Are you Tom Temple?” asked the merchant abruptly.
“Yes, sir,” said Tom respectfully.
“I am glad to see you. Take a seat. Your father was my intimate friend. I was several years older than he, but we went to school together.”
“I have heard him say so, sir.”
“You find me under a cloud,” said the merchant, a shadow sweeping over his face. “Perhaps you have heard of my failure.”