Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced, side-whiskered old merchant.
“Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely.
“Well, you are the only one of his force he has mentioned to me, at any rate,” the importer said, persistently, “and I know he means it, for a man who has ability and can be thoroughly trusted is hard to find these days.”
The three sat and chatted for an hour, Marston being interrupted now and then by a telegram or a question asked by some clerk who came from an adjoining room, where there was a din of clicking typewriting machines.
“Now we'll have to go,” Whipple said, as he arose. “Fred has got some letters of instructions to write home, and I'm due in Wall Street at this very minute.”
“To write letters!” Marston cried. “Well, he needn't go away to do that. Do you see that desk at the window? It is for the sole use of our customers. There is plenty of stationery. Sit down, Mr. Spencer. I'll have to leave soon myself. My wife is coming to get me to help her select some Persian rugs, and you'll have the whole office to yourself.”
“A good plan, Fred,” Whipple exclaimed; “then we could meet at the Astor House and take lunch together at one o'clock. I want to see what the old place is like. My daddy stopped there once before the war.”
“That's the idea!” the importer chimed in. “Make yourself thoroughly at home, Mr. Spencer. If you need anything, just tap that bell and the boy will attend to you.”
When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to write.
“Oh, I forgot,” Marston said, apologetically, as he looked up from the letter he was writing. “I will call a stenographer, if you'd like to dictate your correspondence.”