"Make or break!" exclaimed he, slapping his hand upon his chest, and throwing his shoulders back, as if to stiffen his frame. "I'll stick to it till something breaks. This is a new business, and I must make the trade."
The effect of this slapping of the chest and this stiffening of the frame was immediately apparent in his demeanor, for they were the visible manifestations of a firm will. He was more cheerful, answered inquiries more briskly, and was less affected by adverse criticism of his handicraft. Men asked the price, sneered, and turned away. There were plenty to admire his workmanship, but as yet none to buy. While Leo was thus struggling against the tide of fortune, the crowd opened, and Mr. Checkynshaw appeared within the ring. He was a great man, and he showed it in his manner—perhaps more in his manner than in any other way.
Mrs. Wittleworth had taken leave of the banker an hour before, and since that time he had been alone in his private office, only occasionally interrupted by a business call. Mr. Checkynshaw was troubled. Fitz was a thorn in his flesh and a stumbling-block in his path. Doubtless it was very annoying for the father of Marguerite to break up the educational and social relations she had sustained from early childhood. Doubtless it was very wicked of Fitz to put him to all this trouble for nothing. Perhaps it was rash in him to discharge his clerk; but Fitz was so airy and impudent, that a decent self-respect would not permit him to tolerate his insolence.
Mr. Checkynshaw wrote a letter, upon which he labored for a long time; for the letter appeared to be full of difficulties. He finished it at last; but, instead of enclosing it in an envelope, he folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he took his hat, drew on his overcoat, and went out. He visited a stationery store in the lower part of the street, purchased some French paper and envelopes, and walked up the street till he saw the crowd in front of the Exchange, which had gathered around the "Hôtel des Mice."
"What have you here, boy?" he asked, when he recognized Leo.
"White mice, sir. My father can't work now, and I am going to try and make something by selling them," replied Leo, cheerfully.
"What is the price?" demanded the banker, rather curtly.
"Six dollars, sir."
"I'll take it, boy," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, with a promptness which astonished the young mechanic.
The banker took the money from his pocket-book and handed it to Leo.