"Well, just at the first the governor said something about a vacancy on his staff. I was sort of counting on that for a while, but I hear he's given it to Allen Gregg, you know, son of G. P. Gregg. He sort of forgot what he said to me--just talking, I guess." "You ought to push those things." "Then there was that engineering expedition, but they decided they'd have to have a man who knew hydraulics, so they couldn't use me unless I paid my own way." "You had just a year at the university?" "Two. But I didn't take any science or mathematics. Well, the day the battalion paraded, Mr. Peter Jordan said something about a vacancy in his store. I went around there to-day and I found he meant a sort of floor-walker--and then you said something one day"--he paused and waited for the older man to take him up, but noting only a minute wince continued--"about a position, so I thought I'd come and see you." "There was a position," confessed Mr. Macy reluctantly, "but since then we've filled it." He cleared his throat again. "You've waited quite a while." "Yes, I suppose I did. Everybody told me there was no hurry--and I'd had these various offers." Mr. Macy delivered a paragraph on present-day opportunities which Dalyrimple's mind completely skipped. "Have you had any business experience?" "I worked on a ranch two summers as a rider." "Oh, well," Mr. Macy disparaged this neatly, and then continued: "What do you think you're worth?" "I don't know." "Well, Bryan, I tell you, I'm willing to strain a point and give you a chance." Dalyrimple nodded. "Your salary won't be much. You'll start by learning the stock. Then you'll come in the office for a while. Then you'll go on the road. When could you begin?" "How about to-morrow?" "All right. Report to Mr. Hanson in the stock-room. He'll start you off." He continued to regard Dalyrimple steadily until the latter, realizing that the interview was over, rose awkwardly. "Well, Mr. Macy, I'm certainly much obliged." "That's all right. Glad to help you, Bryan." After an irresolute moment, Dalyrimple found himself in the hall. His forehead was covered with perspiration, and the room had not been hot. "Why the devil did I thank the son of a gun?" he muttered. III Next morning Mr. Hanson informed him coldly of the necessity of punching the time-clock at seven every morning, and delivered him for instruction into the hands of a fellow worker, one Charley Moore.