T HE store was crowded with a miscellaneous collection of cheap articles. That such a business should yield such large profits struck Oliver with surprise, but he reflected that it was possible, and that he was not qualified to judge of the extent of trade in a city store.

A tall man, pock-marked, and with reddish hair, stood behind the counter, and, with the exception of a young clerk of nineteen, appeared to be the only salesman. This was Ezekiel Bond.

"How are you, Ezekiel?" said Mr. Kenyon affably, advancing to the counter.

"Pretty well, thank you, uncle," said the other, twisting his features into the semblance of a smile. "When did you come into town?"

"This morning only."

"That isn\'t Roland, is it?"

"Oh, no; it is my step-son, Oliver Conrad. Oliver, this is my nephew, Ezekiel Bond."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel, putting out his hand as if he were a pump-handle. "Do you like New York?"

"I haven\'t seen much of it yet. I think I shall."

"Ezekiel," said Mr. Kenyon, "can I see you a few minutes in private?"

"Oh, certainly. We\'ll go into the back room. Will Mr. Conrad come, too?"

"No; he can remain with your clerk while we converse."

"John, take care of Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel.

"All right, sir."

John Meadows was a Bowery boy, and better adapted for the store he was in than for one in a more fashionable thoroughfare.

"The boss wants me to entertain you," he remarked, when they were alone. "How shall I do it?"

"Don\'t trouble yourself," said Oliver, smiling.

"I\'d offer you a cigarette, only the boss don\'t allow smoking in the store."

"I don\'t smoke," said Oliver.

"You don\'t! Where was you brung up?" asked John.

"In the country."

"Oh, that accounts for it. Mean ter say you\'ve never puffed a weed?"

"I never have."

"Then you don\'t know what \'tis to enjoy yourself. Who\'s that man you came in with?"

"My step-father."

"I\'ve seen him here before. He\'s related to my boss. I don\'t think any more of him for that."

"Why not?" asked Oliver, rather amused. "Don\'t you like Mr. Bond?"

"Come here," said John.

Oliver approached the counter, and leaning over, John whispered mysteriously:

"He\'s a file!"

"A what?"

"A file, and an awful rasping one at that. He\'s as mean as dirt."

"I am sorry to hear that, for Mr. Kenyon wants me to begin business in this store."

John whistled.

"That\'s a go," he said. "Are you going to do it?"

"I suppose I shall try it. If I don\'t like it I can give it up at any time."

"Then I wish I was you. I don\'t like it, but I can\'t give it up, or I might have to live on nothing a week. I don\'t see what the boss wants an extra hand for. There aint enough trade to keep us busy."

"Mr. Kenyon tells me Mr. Bond has made money."

"Well, I am glad to hear it. The boss is always a-complainin\' that trade is dull, and he must cut me down. If he does I\'ll sink into a hungry grave, that\'s all."

"How much do you get?" asked Oliver, amused by his companion\'s tone.

"Eight dollars a week; and what\'s that to support a gentleman on? I tell you what, I haven\'t had a new necktie for three months."

"That is hard."

"Hard! I should say it was hard. Look at them shoes!"

And John, bounding over the counter, displayed a foot which had successfully struggled out of its encasement on one side. "Isn\'t it disgraceful that a gentleman should have to wear such foot-cases as them?"

"Won\'t Mr. Bond pay you more?" asked Oliver.

"I guess not. I asked him last week, and he lectured me on the dulness of trade. Then he went on for to show that eight dollars was a fortune, and I\'d orter keep my carriage on it. He\'s a regular old file, he is."
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