Carl followed his guide, feeling, as he tagged across the silencing rug, deplorably small, and painfully conscious of both his hands and feet. He and his conductor passed through another door, threaded labyrinthian aisles flanked by gaping clerks and faintly smiling stenographers, and came at length to a third door which the youth preceding him opened with a flourish. "Mr. Carl McGregor," announced he in a stentorian tone. All the blood in Carl's body rushed to his face. The room before him was small and on its warmly tinted walls a few pictures, some of which his school training led him to recognize as Rembrandt reproductions, lent charm and interest to the interior. But these details were of minor importance compared to the thrill he experienced at discovering behind a great mahogany desk the mysterious stranger of his motoring adventure. Yes, it was he--there could be no question about that. And yet, now that his hat and heavy fur coat were removed he appeared surprisingly slender and youthful. His eyes, too, seemed bluer, his cheeks redder, and his mouth more smiling. "Well, shaver, you're prompt," announced he, pointing to the clock with evident satisfaction. "You said ten, sir." "So I did. Nevertheless, I often say ten and get quarter past ten or even eleven o'clock. Sit down." He motioned toward a huge leather chair at his elbow and slipping into it the boy perched with anticipation on its forward edge. "Well, what about that Miss Harling we were talking of yesterday? Has she a position yet?" "Since last night, you mean? I don't know, sir. I haven't seen any of the Harlings to-day. But I hardly think so." The stranger pursed his lips. "Too bad! Too bad!" he murmured. "And you are still for helping the family out by taking a job, are you?" "If I can get one; yes, sir." "Just what kind of work had you in mind?" "Why--I--I--hadn't thought about it." "I suppose you go to school." "Yes, sir. That's the dickens of it. My mother makes me. I'd a great deal rather go into Davis and Coulter's cotton mills. Lots of boys and girls my age do go there, and that is where my father worked before he died. But Ma is hot on education. She says I've got to have one, and she insists on sewing at home on all sorts of fool flummeries for some dressmaker so I can. It's rotten of me not to be more pleased about it, I suppose." While Carl fumbled with his cap the man at the desk tilted back in his chair, regarding him narrowly. "Your school work can't leave you very much time for anything else," remarked he. "Oh, yes, it does," the lad hastened to retort. "I have Saturdays and--and--spare hours at night. I'd even work Sundays if there was anything I could do." "At that rate I am afraid you would not find much time for skating or baseball. People have to have fresh air and exercise, you know, to keep well."