“It’s better to be born lucky than rich, young man,” he said, genially. “Do you know, if you had allowed yourself to get caught in that deal I should have been tempted to have given you a dressing-down. As it was, you took altogether too many chances. You only escaped by the skin of your teeth. Why, I got rid of my holdings at sixty-nine two days ago, and I was half tempted to sell you out at the same time. Only, you see, that isn’t according to Hoyle.” “I’m glad you didn’t treat me like a kid--for that is what it would have amounted to if you had used your own judgment against my orders.” “I’m glad myself, seeing how the thing has turned out. I’ll send you a statement and a certified check to-morrow.” “Don’t forget to deduct your regular commissions,” said Jack, promptly. “All right,” replied the broker, who understood the boy thoroughly. “I wish I was of age,” said Jack, wistfully. “Why so?” “Because then I could sign checks and not have to draw my money personally whenever I wanted to use it. It would save me lots of time.” “I hope you aren’t thinking of making a practice of this sort of thing. If you are, you’ll make a mistake. The best thing that could happen to people who come into Wall Street is to lose their first deal. It might serve to scare them off for good.” “Your advice is good, Mr. Bird, and I am much obliged to you for it; but if I see another good thing going to waste I should feel sorry to let it get away from me.” “Good things are not handed out to the public, Jack. You came by the L. S. tip through sheer horse luck--a chance in a million.” Jack made no answer to that, but took his leave soon, after promising to dine with Mr. Bird the next evening at Sherry’s. On the way back to the office our young messenger boy bought a nice bunch of violets, which he artfully attached to Millie’s Remington while she was taking down the final dictation of the day in Mr. Atherton’s room. “Where did these come from?” she asked Jack, who was perched over in the corner, reading a copy of that week’s “Financial Chronicle,” as she reseated herself at the machine. The sly puss knew pretty well who had bought them, but that was one of her little coquetries. “I think it was that dude that was in here the other day that brought them expressly for you. He works upstairs, you know,” replied Jack, smothering a grin. Before she could reply, in walked that self-same dude, Percy Chamberlain, with a duplicate bunch of violets. And straightway he pranced up to Millie and held out the flowers, with a low bow. “Will you accept these flowers, Miss Price? Bought them expressly for you, don’t you know.” Millie was astonished. “Why, hello, George Augustus Fitzwilliam!” exclaimed Jack, dropping the paper and gliding over to the dude clerk, whose left hand he seized and shook as if he were some long-lost friend. “We haven’t seen you for two whole days. Where have you been keeping yourself?”