"To this man," reported the sentry posted by old Rufus in Anthony's brain, "life is all heights. There are no depths. To him, great deed follows upon the heels of noble effort; magnificent achievement springs full-armored into being, glory is a thing made by a single motion. The romance of commerce, as Dr. King called it, he holds to his heart; the reality he leaves to others." Anthony followed this report soberly, for the sentry was one in whom he had great faith. And before he closed his wicket for the night the sentry added, "And I wonder who these people are, through whose hands the realities pass?" There was a space, after the plates had been removed and the wine and tobacco were brought in, in which Charles took Dr. King into a room adjoining, to point out an example of the work of a Persian artist for whom he expressed great admiration, and Anthony was left with Captain Weir. There was a silence for a moment, and then Weir said: "Your uncle is in one of his talkative moods to-night." His level gaze was fixed upon Anthony with inquiry, but from his mask no indication was to be had of what was in his mind. "When a man talks we are often able to get a definite impression of him," said Weir. Anthony nodded, but said nothing. The other waited; then he proceeded. "I talked with Dr. King for some time to-day. He told me that he had tried to induce you to remain in the city and go into Rufus Stevens' Sons. I agreed with him that this was a thing greatly to be wished." "What," asked Anthony, "do you think I could do that another could not?" "I don't know," said Weir. "But I have a feeling that you are needed, and that the house is your natural place." "But," said Anthony, "I do not know my uncle's attitude." "He means to ask you to resume where your father stepped out. He's told me so." There was another short pause. "What answer will you give?" asked Weir. "I'll do it," said Anthony. And Weir, leaning across the table, gripped his hand. "That's what I expected you to say," said he. "And I am very glad." But as he turned away his head there was a glint in the green, stone-like eyes, a glint that Anthony did not see. XII A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue monotonously _galing-galanged_ against the sides of the bell, the man chanted with equal monotony: "A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day." "Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!" grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from turning over on his back." Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.