There was one immense flour and grain store down by the wharf, owned by Long, Haynes, & Long, into which he had looked with great interest.
The vessels, loaded with grain, came up to the very door, whence the huge bags were taken by means of the tackle into the upper stories of the great storehouse.
“That is the kind of place I should like,” he said to himself, watching the men running to and fro. “Business seems lively. I wonder whether any of the partners are in the counting-room? I wish somebody would introduce me; but if I must go alone, I must. It’s no use standing here dreading it.”
“I want to see ’Squire Long,” he said, addressing a man who wore a meal-bag apron.
“Go to the counting-room, then;” and the porter was gone without another word.
He was relieved to see that the gentleman was alone, and, looking as bold as possible, he asked,—
Without answering, the ’Squire peeped over the top of his glasses, but tried in vain to make out who he was.
“I know your face, my young friend,” he said; “but I can’t call your name.”
“Frederick Carleton, sir.”