"Sir:—
"We have advices by telegraph from London, just as the steamer was leaving port, of the failure of the London insurance office, in Which the Matilda is insured. She is now over-due, and not yet reported. Shall I insure her? Be sure to answer by first mail.
"James Precision."
How the bell did ring; how he stamped, and swore, and wrote, and yet he could not send his letter till next morning.
"Why did not old Precision insure at once? Every dollar on earth would be swallowed up if that ship were lost."
Simply because he was Precision, and the merchant, who had directed him for forty years, had never given him leave to act, upon his own discretion, in an emergency like this.
"That is my business," was the unvarying answer.
Two days after, he had another letter from his precise clerk. He did not order it up to his room, to wait till next morning, for he was in a tearing passion when it was handed him; and he felt as though he would have opened it if the biggest rocks in that mountainous region had been piled upon it.
What had so disturbed the rich merchant? Those who have them not, are apt to fancy that, riches and happiness are handmaids. What was the matter? His son, his only son, had just approached him, taking advantage, as Wendall had, of a propitious hour, when wine had done its work—he drank brandy since the news in that letter, and that fired, not soothed him—he approached him with a beautiful sweet girl upon his arm, to ask his consent to their marriage.
Mrs. Wendall screamed and fainted—that is, in appearance.
"Why, Walter! to that girl—marry that thing—a dressmaker"