George was a glorious fishing companion for the shipping merchant. He could row and drive, and get up all the fixings; and, after dinner, talk, and laugh, and drink, till both went to bed "glorious." "Mr. Morgan, you drink one bottle too many." "Pshaw. What if I do? that is my business." It is sometimes the wife's business. George was a boon companion, that was all. He had nothing, did nothing, lived somehow, dressed well--ill-natured folks said he did not pay his tailor. Who ever thought that he would be Mr. Morgan's son-in-law? He did, and so had his daughter, Elsie, lately concluded, for the country air and scenery are provocatives to that end. "Ask father." "Enough said." He did. He took care to ask him just at the right time. "Why, George, my boy, good fellow to fish. Did not think you had your hook there. Got any bait? No. Well I have. Enough for both of us. I will bait your hook, boy. That is my business." "Thank you, sir. When shall it be?" George knew the art of fishing with a fresh bait, and never losing sight of the fish after he had tasted it, until he had him safe bagged. "When shall it be? Now, now--right off to-night. Nothing like going to sea while the tide serves." He was a prompt man always. It was no use to say no, after he had said yes, or, "that is my business;" so in half an hour after that, Elsie Morgan was Elsie Wendall. Of course more wine was drank, after which a letter was brought to him, from his head clerk, marked, "Important--in haste." So Mrs. Morgan told him. "That is my business; take it up to my room. Do you think I am going to read the stupid letters of old Precision at this time of the evening, and my daughter just married?" At ten o'clock next morning, after the mail had gone, he read: "Sir:-- "We have advices by telegraph from London, just as the steamer was leaving port, of the failure of the London insurance office, in Which the Matilda is insured. She is now over-due, and not yet reported. Shall I insure her? Be sure to answer by first mail. "JAMES PRECISION." How the bell did ring; how he stamped, and swore, and wrote, and yet he could not send his letter till next morning. "Why did not old Precision insure at once? Every dollar on earth would be swallowed up if that ship were lost." Simply because he was Precision, and the merchant, who had directed him for forty years, had never given him leave to act, upon his own discretion, in an emergency like this. "That is my business," was the unvarying answer. Two days after, he had another letter from his precise clerk. He did not order it up to his room, to wait till next morning, for he was in a tearing passion when it was handed him; and he felt as though he would have opened it if the biggest rocks in that mountainous region had been piled upon it.