“Yes, sir,” replied Jack, respectfully. “Very good. Now come inside, and I will make you acquainted with the boy you are to succeed.” Frank Simpson, the messenger, was perched on a high stool at a desk, sorting over a pile of papers for the head clerk. He was a pleasant-featured boy of fifteen and appeared to be glad to know his successor. “Where have you been working?” he asked Jack. “I was employed by Hogg & Newman, in Stone Street, but the firm went up a couple of weeks ago.” “Never worked in Wall Street, then?” “No.” “Well, you’ve struck a dandy place when you caught on here. How did you come to get the tip?” Evidently Simpson hadn’t read about Jack’s adventure in the papers. “Mr. Seymour Atherton sent me here.” “Oh, I see; you are acquainted with the old gent.” Jack nodded, but did not mention how that acquaintance came about. “Then I guess you’re solid, all right,” added Simpson. “There, I’m through now. Come outside.” The two boys walked into the outer office and took possession of a couple of chairs in a corner. “This is your post. When the boss or the manager wants you he taps a bell and you answer it--see?” Jack understood, and an instant later Mr. Bishop’s bell sounded. “I’ll take the call,” said Simpson, skipping over to the manager’s private office. He was back in a moment. “You’re to deliver this envelope at the address, on Exchange Place, and wait for an answer. I’m off for the Seaman’s Bank.” The boys seized their hats, descended the stairs together with a hop, skip and a jump, and parted at the door. Jack turned down Broad Street, crossed over, passed the Stock Exchange, and hastened along until he came to Exchange Place, a narrow thoroughfare, more like a lane than a street, which was somewhat gloomy even on the brightest days because of the tall buildings that fringed both sides. He easily found the number he wanted, took an elevator, and was carried to the top floor. “Number Ninety-six, to your left,” said the elevator man as Jack stepped out into the corridor. Numberless doors, the upper part of which were fitted with frosted glass bearing the name of a firm, stared the boy in the face as he hurried forward and turned down a shorter corridor to the left as he had been directed to do. No. 96 was at the extreme end of the corridor facing him, so he had nothing to do but walk straight ahead, turn the handle of the door and enter. He delivered the envelope to a dudish-looking clerk and then flopped down on a cane chair. At that moment there was a sudden commotion in the private office of the firm. All the clerks looked up in a startled way as a man’s voice exclaimed, in hoarse accents: “I tell you I’m utterly ruined! I can’t deliver that stock by noon, and since you refuse to let up on me, Hartz, there’s nothing left for me to do but this----” “You’re crazy, man--put down that revolver!” in lower but not less excited tones.