She was certainly attractive in her manners, vivacious in her talk, and generally polite and agreeable in her deportment. She was a smart worker, was well up in her business, and had the confidence of the firm. “She has a level head and doesn’t put on any airs,” said Jack to his friend Ed one day when he was speaking about her. “I s’pose she gets good pay,” remarked Potter. “I believe she gets twelve dollars. She lives in Brooklyn with her mother, who is a widow, and I guess all the money they have is what she makes.” “She isn’t the only girl that supports her home.” “That’s right,” nodded Jack, and then they began to talk of something else. Next day Jack happened to be over at Hartz’s office on business for his firm when a seedy-looking old man, with a dissipated and dejected aspect, shuffled into the place. “I want to see Mr. Hartz,” he said in a trembling voice. “Mr. Hartz is engaged,” replied the clerk, turning away. Just then Hartz came out of his private room, and the visitor motioned to him in an eager sort of way. “Well,” said the broker, coldly, as he stepped up to the railing, “your account is closed, Mr. Tuggs. We sent you a notice and, as you didn’t respond, had to close you out at twenty-two, with a balance against you. Jenkins,” addressing his head bookkeeper, “prepare a statement of Mr. Tuggs’ account and hand it to me with notice of sale. Sit down, Mr. Tuggs. Statement ready presently,” and Mr. Hartz re-entered his sanctum, while the customer, with a gesture of despair, tottered over to the indicator and examined it with hungry eyes. Jack had overheard it all, and he watched this old derelict of Wall Street with sympathetic eyes. “Who is he?” he inquired of the clerk who had brought him the envelope he was to take back to Atherton’s.