Now garrulity is a disease that must either break out or strike inward with fatal results. When Sunday night came, Mitchell was about ready to fare forth with gun and mask and take conversation away from anybody who had it to spare. He had begun to fear that his vocal cords would atrophy. He was up early, had breakfasted, and was at 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street promptly at nine, beating the janitor by some twenty minutes. During the next hour and a half he gleaned considerable information regarding British business methods, the while he monotonously pounded the sidewalk. At nine-thirty a scouting party of dignified office-boys made a cautious approach. At nine-thirty-five there came the main army of clerks, only they were not clerks, but "clarks"--very impressive gentlemen with gloves, spats, sticks, silk hats and sack coats. At this same time, evidently by appointment, came the charwomen--"char" being spelled s-c-r-u-b, and affording an example of how pure English has been corrupted out in the Americas. After the arrival of the head "clarks" and stenographers at nine-forty-five, there ensued fifteen minutes of guarded conversation in front of the offices. During this time the public issues of the day were settled and the nation's policies outlined. At ten o'clock the offices were formally opened, and at ten-thirty a reception was tendered to the managers who arrived dressed as for any well-conducted afternoon function. To Mitchell, who was accustomed to the feverish, football methods of American business life, all this was vastly edifying and instructive; it was even soothing, although he was vaguely offended to note that passers-by avoided him as if fearful of contamination. Upon entering 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street, he was halted by an imperious office-boy. To him Louis gave his card with a request that it be handed to Mr. Peebleby, then he seated himself and for an hour witnessed a parade of unsmiling, silk-hatted gentlemen pass in and out of Mr. Peebleby's office. Growing impatient, at length, he inquired of the boy; "Is somebody dead around here or is this where the City Council meets?" "I beg pardon?" The lad was polite in a cool, superior way. "I say, what's the idea of the pall-bearers?" The youth's expression froze to one of disapproval and suspicion. "I mean the parade. Are these fellows Congress- or minstrel-men?" His hearer shrugged and smiled vacuously, then turned away, whereupon Mitchell took him firmly by the arm. "Look here, my boy," he began. "There seems to be a lot of information coming to both of us. Who are these over-dressed gentlemen I see promenading back and forth?" "Why--they're callers, customers, representatives of the firms we do business with, sir." "Is this Guy Fawkes Day?" "No, sir." "Are these men here on business? Are any of them salesmen, for instance?" "Yes, sir; some of them. Certainly, sir." "To see Mr. Peebleby about the new construction work?" "No doubt."